


Company Man

by magneticdice



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: (but it's not a soulmate fic), Accidents, Alternate Universe, Boatloads of Death, Boatloads of Sex, Boyfriends, Boyfriends on the run, Death, Did I mention sex?, Explicit Sex, Fuck buddies to more, Grim Reapers, Grim reaper au, GrimReaper!Mickey, Lots of Sex, M/M, Meh, Oral Sex, People Keep Dying, Raw Sex, Rimming, Rough Sex, Shameless Big Bang, Some Fluff, Soulmates, did I mention death?, fighting and fucking, fuck buddies, lots of death, murders
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-02
Updated: 2015-12-02
Packaged: 2018-05-04 14:13:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 64,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5337038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magneticdice/pseuds/magneticdice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey never expected to start living life to its fullest AFTER he died. Or, the grim reaper AU you didn’t know you needed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I realized after I started writing this that parts of it are very similar to the ‘verse in the show Dead Like Me, but I haven't watched it since it first aired in 2003, so I hope I didn’t borrow too much! Also, it’s VERY graphically violent… and people keep dying... but it’s a grim reaper AU so what do you really expect? Mickey dies in the prologue… and comes back right away… so don’t worry. My advice is to not read it if you are not okay with major character death…
> 
> HUGE SHOUT OUT TO MY BETA, ROMANTICALGIRL, AND ALL OF MY FRIENDS WHO HAD TO DEAL WITH ME TALKING ABOUT THIS FIC NONSTOP FOR THE LAST TWO AND A HALF MONTHS.
> 
> Most importantly, check out the fantastic artwork by theunforgivngminute [here](http://theunforgivngminute.tumblr.com/post/134408878079)!

Everything was dark.

“Wake up, dickhead,” Mandy said, tossing a pillow at Mickey's head.

He rubbed at his eyes and squinted, looking around. He was in his room, and it was the dead of night.

“What time is it?” he wondered, voice thick and raspy from lack of use.

“Time to get your ass up before dad comes in here and beats it,” she shot back, walking past him and into the bathroom.

Mickey pushed himself off the bed and reached for his burner. It was only four in the morning. What the fuck was wrong with his sister?

“We've got a job to do,” she called from the bathroom, her sharp voice carrying effortlessly through the room, straight to Mickey's ears.

Mickey hung his feet over the edge of the bed and stood, grunting with the effort. His body was _not_ happy with being woken up this early. Come to think of it, no part of him was happy about it. He needed a cigarette and a piss, though the latter was more pressing.

Using the light coming from the bathroom to his advantage, he dragged on a pair of jeans that lay collapsed in a small pile on the floor and shuffled to the bathroom. Mandy was busy putting on makeup in front of the mirror but he ignored her and went straight for the toilet.

“Oh my God, I'm standing _right_ here!” Mandy yelled as soon as he began to pee. Mickey looked over his shoulder at her with a fat fucking smirk on his face and she rolled her eyes in response. “You're _such_ an animal...”

Mickey shrugged and went about his business. When he was done, he grabbed the bottle of Jack beside the sink and took a swig while Mandy huffed in annoyance. He knew that she didn't consider whiskey to be a good substitute for mouth wash, but that was just because she'd never tried it.

“Why are we doing this shit so early?” Mickey asked her, because since when did they do jobs in the middle of the fucking night? He wet his hands and ran them through his hair, spiking it so that it looked like he'd put at least a modicum of effort into getting ready.

“It's not early. Dad says it's in Michigan, so by the time we drive there...” she explained.

Mickey groaned at the thought of spending four hours in the backseat with his brothers. Mandy was smiling smugly, knowing she'd be the one to sit in the front again, as usual. Of course Terry wouldn't let them take two cars and waste the gas, his kids' comfort at the bottom of his list of cares in the world, right under following the law and changes in the stock market.

“Yeah, laugh it up,” he muttered, shoving her eyeshadow case off the edge of the sink with his index finger on his way out in a half-assed attempt at evening the score.

Iggy and Colin were already having breakfast in the kitchen when he walked out of his room, if leftover pizza and beer counted as breakfast. Mickey grabbed himself a beer too and leaned against the counter. He popped the can open and took a sip.

“Where's dad?” he wondered.

“Filling the tank,” Iggy told him, following up his answer with a loud burp. He and Colin laughed and high-fived each other. Mickey shook his head; it was like watching an episode of Beavis and Butt-head.

“Any idea what kind of job we're doing?” he asked, looking at his brothers for an answer. Both shook their heads, and Mickey wasn't surprised. They might not have been the sharpest of tools in the shed, but his brothers were reliable in the sense that they did what they were told and didn't ask any questions. Mickey took a cigarette from the carton on the table and lit it up while he waited to find out what they’d be doing.

Mandy came out of his room a few minutes later, dressed like she was going out with her friends on a Friday night. Mickey stared at her while drinking his beer.

“What?” she said, narrowing her eyes at him.

“We're not going to a fucking club, Mandy,” he told her. Iggy and Colin chuckled at his diss but quieted when Mandy shot them a glare.

“At least _I'm_ not wearing the same thing I've been wearing for a whole week,” she said pointedly. “You smell like barbecue sauce,” she taunted, pointedly staring at one of the stains on his tank top.

“What the fuck ever, skank,” Mickey snapped back.

Mandy stuck out her tongue at him.

The door slammed and all four Milkovich siblings' heads snapped towards the front of the house, to where Terry was walking in.

“What are you idiots doing just standing there?” he accused, sneering at them. “Get a weapon and your asses into the car,” he barked, going to the cabinet to get himself a gun. Iggy, Colin and Mandy followed suit. Mickey tossed his half-finished cigarette into his beer, dropped it in the sink and followed the others out, but not before choosing a handgun for himself.

* * *

The drive to Detroit was just as horrible as he expected it to be. Mickey waited until they were well into Michigan before asking his dad for details about what they were doing.

“Ivan's got a cousin who's fresh off the boat from Russia. He set up a meeting for me with the guy,” Terry told them.

“ _Ivan_ Ivan? As in, Russian mafia Ivan?” Mickey asked, wanting clarification. All they needed was to be involved with the mob again. Colin had been used as collateral by Terry the last time they'd done business with Ivan and had gotten in too deep, and Mickey glanced nervously at his blond little brother sitting on the opposite side of the car.

“Is there more than one Ivan?” Iggy chimed in from his seat between them.

“He's not in the mob,” their dad said bitterly.

“Is his cousin?” Mickey countered without thinking. Terry shot him a look over his shoulder that was so angry that it made Mickey sink further back into his seat. Mandy glanced back at him while biting her lip, a silent plea to not push their dad any further, because Terry in a bad mood meant unpleasantness for everyone.

Mandy convinced Terry to let her put some music on once they were about halfway there. It wasn't anything special but Mickey sure as hell wasn't going to complain, since it was better than silence.

Iggy and Colin kept busy by playing Slaps, but their hands were so red and swollen that not even Mickey knew how they kept at it, both determined to not be the one to give up first.

Mickey stared out of the window as they drove east down the highway, watching the landscape change from green to grey as they got closer to the city, buildings getting shinier as the sun rose in front of them. They were definitely getting close now.

“Think we'll be home before it gets dark again?” Mandy asked carefully, keeping her voice casual.

Terry scowled at her. “Don’t ask stupid questions. It’ll take as long as it needs to take.”

“What are you in such a rush for?” Colin wondered.

“Mind your own business, dickhead,” she told him, using her default insult for her brothers.

“She probably wants to get home so she can go out with that loser Dylan again,” Iggy guessed.

“Isn’t he a faggot?” Colin asked, laughing. “Dylan’s a pretty gay name,” he added, getting a high-five from Iggy.

“Who’s a fuckin’ faggot?” Terry asked, ears already red and voice dripping with disgust.

“No one’s a faggot!” Mandy shouted, silencing her brothers with a glare. All they needed to make the drive even better would be their dad getting all worked up over the thought of his princess being involved with someone gay.

Mickey swallowed hard, fighting to keep his thoughts to himself. He made himself stare out of the window again, careful not to make a wrong move. He hated that his brothers used the word ‘faggot’ as an insult, hated that his father was so homophobic, hated that he couldn’t even do anything about it, because the idea of changing Terry’s mind was ludicrous. This was how his life had been ever since he’d come to terms with his sexuality: one big secret, and Mickey knew that if his secret ever got out, his father would murder him with his own bare hands.

He only realized they’d arrived at their destination when Terry pulled up to a mechanic shop. They got out of their car and Mickey noted that the shop looked busy; it had five or six large bays, a couple filled with cars and the rest with cars up on the lifts. He lit a cigarette as soon as they got out.

Terry went to the trunk and got a metal briefcase from it. “Hold on to this,” he said to Colin, slamming the case into his son’s hands and slapping the handcuff connected to the handle of the briefcase around his wrist.

They walked into the garage and passed by the mechanics who were busy working on the cars. Someone, probably a customer based on the fact that he was wearing a black suit and sunglasses, bumped into both Colin and Mickey, then had the balls to touch him on the back with something. Mickey looked over his shoulder and scowled at the asshole for not even apologizing but it wasn’t the right time to be starting shit with a total stranger.

It was loud in the garage, largely due to the noise made by the mechanic cutting parts down to size with a circular saw. Beside him, another guy was attaching them to each other with a welding gun.

His dad led them toward the main office at the opposite end of the garage. Mickey and his siblings hung back but he could see inside where a muscular, bald man was sitting behind a desk, feet up on the table.

“Are you Jakov?” Terry asked him. Mickey cringed at how his dad managed to be so off-putting with just three small words.

“Is pronounced Yakov, with Y,” the boss said with his thick accent.

“Then why the fuck’s it spelled with a J?” Terry argued.

The boss grunted, but their dad paid him no mind.

“Ivan said you’d hook us up with some good product,” he said impatiently.

Jakov got up and walked to one of the bays where an ordinary looking Toyota was parked. He popped the trunk open, revealing at least thirty bricks of heroin.

Mickey chewed on his bottom lip, eyes darting from Terry to the Russian. There was no way his dad had the kind of cash he’d need to pay for all of it. It suddenly dawned on him that they weren’t here to _buy_ the drugs off of Jakov; they were here to screw him over. Terry telling them to grab weapons made a lot more sense, now that he had figured it out.

Knowing he had to be ready for whatever came next, Mickey dropped his cigarette and dragged his shoe over it, crushing it against the concrete floor of the garage.

“So we have deal?” Jakov asked, face still stern.

“Not so fast, Jack,” Terry said, butchering Jakov’s name again. “Gotta test it first.”

Jakov crossed his arms over his chest but nodded. Terry took a knife out of his pocket and cut one of the pressed blocks open. He looked over the light brown powder and nodded, then took a small sample with the tip of his knife and put it onto a piece of foil. He held a lighter under it and watched the white smoke rise up from it, while the rest melted into a dark, beetle-looking blob. Finally, Terry used his pinky to taste a bit, and Mickey saw him squinch his face together like someone would when biting into a lemon.

“Looks good,” Terry muttered, then pulled his gun out of his pants/waist and pointed it at Jakov. “We’ll take it,” he said, flashing an ugly grin to the Russian.

At their father’s lead, all the Milkovich siblings pulled their pieces out too. Only, they weren’t expecting the mechanics in the garage to have their own guns. Within a matter of seconds, the tables had turned and the small ring of Milkoviches in the middle of the garage was suddenly a very large target for the Russian mob.

Jakov didn’t even flinch throughout the whole exchange. He calmly lit a cigarette and started smoking it, even smiling wickedly at Terry.

“Ivan tell me, ‘Terry is piece-of-shit Ukrainian idiot.’ I know you will try stupid shit. I ready,” he said, pointing at the men surrounding them.

“You go now, and I take this,” he said, pointing to the briefcase cuffed to Colin’s left hand. Their blond brother moved the money closer to himself, cradling it to his chest while still keeping his gun trained on Jakov.

“Look at yellow boy,” Jakov said to one of the guys, pointing to Colin. They both laughed. “Get me briefcase,” he ordered, and, without warning, there was a loud pop and Colin fell backwards onto the ground, a red bullet hole right in the center of his forehead.

The garage went completely silent; none of the Milkoviches even had time to react to what had just happened. Mickey watched in horror as Jakov signaled for two men to come forward and drag his brother’s body towards a table. They hoisted him up and casually cut his hand off with a fucking circular saw, like it was no big deal. They slid the handcuff off and dropped Colin’s hand onto the ground with the rest of his limp form now that they had no more use for it.

Mickey somehow managed to tear his eyes away to look at the rest of his family. Iggy appeared to be completely dazed, but Mandy was shaking with rage and he could see the tears silently streaming down her face. He saw his dad’s face from the corner of his eye, twisted in horrified rage and disgust, ready to explode.

His attention was drawn back to the circular saw, to where the men who had severed Colin’s arm so nonchalantly were now cutting open the metal briefcase. He glanced over to where Jakov was rubbing his hands together greedily, anxious to see his prize. Mickey knew the moment the men finally managed to open the briefcase because it was followed by angry screaming back and forth in Russian.

Jakov’s men threw the briefcase onto the floor, sending its contents into the air.  “This fucking joke?” the boss shouted accusingly at Terry.

Mickey’s jaw dropped as what looked to be playing cards flew all around them. One of the white and red cards fell down into the pool of thick, red blood that had pooled around Colin on the garage floor and Mickey had to swallow down the urge to vomit, realizing that his brother died protecting _nothing_.

Their dad ground his teeth together. “I’ll show you a fucking joke,” Terry screamed, finally snapping, then raised his gun and fired at the guy standing closest to the circular saw, hitting him in the chest.

Within seconds, they were right in the middle of a shootout ‒ only, the Milkoviches were at a _severe_ disadvantage: they were surrounded and exposed, with no place to hide or take cover. Terry clearly hadn’t counted on Jakov having so many men with him; they didn’t even stand a chance.

Mandy dropped to the ground as the first shots were fired in their direction, pulling Mickey down with her. They knelt beside the Toyota and used it for cover, but could still see their dad empty his clip in Jakov’s direction before turning tail and running to the exit at the back of the garage, leaving the rest of his kids to fend for themselves.

Iggy managed to hit another one of the Russians before he took a shot to his shoulder and went down. “This is a fucking slaughter,” Mandy gritted.

“I’ll cover you,” Mickey told her, panting. “Grab Iggy and get to the door,” he ordered, glancing towards the exit their dad had fled through.

“Don’t be a dumbass,” she shot back, brushing her hair to the side and tightening her grip on her gun. “On the count of three?” she said.

“Okay,” he breathed tersely with a quick nod.

Mandy got to the number two when there was commotion from the opposite side of the garage. They peeked around the trunk of the car to see Terry leaning out of the window of their car with a fucking AK-47 in his arms.

“Let’s go!” he shouted, and the siblings didn’t waste any time. They ran forward in a crouch and grabbed Iggy, then practically dragged him to their car while Terry shot at anyone and everyone in sight.

Mandy shoved a cursing Iggy into the backseat and jumped in with him. Mickey was about to follow when he felt a sharp pain in his back, like someone had stabbed him. He fell forward into the car and Mandy pulled the door shut behind him as Terry kicked the car into reverse and sped out of the garage.

“Oh my God… Oh my God…” Mandy kept repeating, and Mickey was vaguely aware of her hands on his chest and back.

“Put pressure on it!” Terry roared from the driver’s side.

“I am,” she cried, voice breaking. “I think the bullet went all the way through… but there’s too much blood…”

He didn’t hear the rest of her words. Mickey's last thought was of how surprisingly _warm_ he felt. He'd always expected to feel cold when dying...

Then everything was dark again.


	2. Welcome to the Company

Mickey opened his eyes and sat up with a start, gasping while clutching at his chest. He was sure Mandy had said the bullet had gone all the way through, but as he clawed at the spot just an inch above his heart, he was baffled by the fact that there was nothing there. No blood, no wound, no hole, not even stitches. The only sign that anything had happened to him at all was a tiny little indentation at the site, like the kind his mother had had from when she’d been vaccinated as a kid.

“Feels like it’s still fresh, right?” someone asked, and Mickey’s attention darted to the source of the voice. An old black man he’d never seen before was standing a few feet away from him, wearing a dark suit and sunglasses. The man nodded his head towards Mickey’s chest, and Mickey looked down at his slight scar, the source of his phantom pain, and swallowed hard. He knew he shouldn't be there, sitting up, still breathing, feeling pain. Whatever had happened to him made no sense. He'd been shot, badly... _fatally_... but here he was.

He was suddenly all-too-aware of the fact that he was naked. He tried to cover himself as best he could but before he could say anything or ask what the fuck was going on, the man stepped closer and placed a pile of clothes onto the metal table Mickey was on.

Mickey swung his legs over the side of the cold table, then hopped down onto the tile floor. He hesitated for a moment when he realized that the clothes given to him were a similar suit to the one the man was wearing, but, seeing how he didn’t really have an alternative and wasn’t a fan of standing around naked in front of a total stranger, he proceeded to wordlessly get dressed.

He went for the boxers first, inwardly groaning at the tight style of the boxer briefs. As he pulled on his pants and buttoned them, he took a look around the room they were in for the first time. Mickey had watched enough TV to know that he was in a morgue, but if there was any doubt in his mind, the dead body on the metal slab beside his own pretty much cleared that up.

He pressed his lips together and buttoned the crisp, white shirt while purposely staring up at the ceiling, trying as hard as he could to _not_ look at the blue-tinged corpse just a few feet away. He pushed down the voice in his head telling him that that corpse should be _him_.

He reached for the jacket and slipped his arms in, then shrugged it on. It was his first time wearing anything so fancy and Mickey felt beyond awkward. “What's up with the Men in Black shit?” he wondered, receiving an eye-roll from the old man as an answer. Clearly Mickey wasn’t the first person to make the reference.

The man continued watching Mickey get ready, which was creepy and uncomfortable as hell, then pointed to the black, leather shoes still on the table. Mickey reached for them, then froze when he looked down at his feet and saw the paper tag with his name on it tied to his toe. He bent and pulled off the tag with shaky hands.

“Shouldn't I be...?” he began to ask, unable to curb his curiosity any longer. He put the socks and shoes on, keeping his eyes locked on the stranger.

“Dead? the man supplied, saying the word Mickey had been too scared to use himself.

Mickey slowly nodded. He should be dead. _Definitely_ dead.

His voice was quiet when he asked, “...but I'm not?”

“Do you _feel_ dead?” He could see the old man’s salt and pepper eyebrows rise above the rims of his dark sunglasses when he asked him the question.

Mikey flexed his fingers, looking himself over. He took a deep breath in the ammonia-scented room, wincing when the new scar on his chest tightened. He could feel, but dead people couldn’t feel. Dead people were… dead. There were tiny goosebumps on his skin. He felt that the morgue was cold, because dead people didn’t exactly need the heat to be on. He closed his eyes and could hear the low thrumming sound of the computer in the corner that was in hibernation mode. Dead people couldn’t hear. “No,” he said, then shook his head. He looked back at the man in the suit. “No, I don’t,” he repeated more firmly.

“Well then,” he said with a shrug.

“But I got shot,” Mickey argued. “I died.” He held up the toe tag as evidence.

“Yes, you did,” the man confirmed.

Mickey felt his throat dry up. He had died. He wasn’t imaging things. Even though he’d known it, hearing it confirmed scared the shit out of him. He had been _dead_.

“Then how the hell am I here, talking to you?” he demanded. “And who the fuck are you supposed to be?”

“You can call me Mr. Smith,” the man told Mickey, not doing much to dispel his Men in Black theory. Mickey would have laughed out loud at it if he hadn't been so overwhelmed by the whole dying-but-not-being-dead thing.

“I'm a reaper,” the man continued, ignoring Mickey's first question about how he was there.

Mickey stared at the guy, waiting for him to laugh or say he was kidding, but his stern expression never faltered.

“You're telling me you're the grim reaper?” he asked, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Not 'the' reaper. Just 'a' reaper. And now, so are you,” Mr. Smith said.

“W-what?” Mickey blinked.

“Here,” he said, coming forward to hand Mickey a pair of sunglasses and a flashy red ring. Mickey stared at the offerings but made no move to claim them, still stunned by the sheer ludicrousness of the man’s words.

“Put them on and follow me,” Mr. Smith said, laying the items down on the table. He walked out of the room, leaving Mickey standing there like a fish out of water, staring at his back.

Mickey was never one to follow directions, let alone from total strangers, but Mr. Smith was the only one there who might have any answers, and Mickey had a shit-ton of questions. He grabbed the sunglasses and put them on, but shoved the gaudy ring into his pocket without a second glance before running to catch up with Mr. Smith.

* * *

Mickey fell in step with the man when they were outside. As they walked down the street, avoiding the few other pedestrians that were there, Mickey noted that it was early in the morning. The sun was barely peeking through over the horizon, orange streaks reflecting off the glass buildings around them. He recognized the Chicago skyline, taking slight comfort in the fact that he wasn't too far from home.

“Where are we going?” Mickey wanted to know. “What the hell is going on? What do you mean by I'm a reaper too? Why the fuck aren’t you telling me anything?”

“We're going to my office. I'll answer your questions during orientation,” Mr. Smith said, leaving Mickey with even more questions.

“That was fucking helpful,” he muttered. Either Mr. Smith didn’t hear him, or he decided to ignore the comment. Either way, he kept walking along Michigan Avenue, expecting Mickey to keep up.

They walked in silence for another ten minutes or so, until they got to the Old Chicago Water Tower. As far as Mickey knew, the Waterworks had closed years ago. He'd thought it was a museum now, which was confirmed when they went into the building through its heavy, wooden doors, past the line of tourists waiting outside for the place to open.

Mickey was sure they’d be told to wait outside with the rest of the tourists until the place officially opened, but the security guard on duty didn’t seem fazed. Mr. Smith slowly waved his hand in front of the guard’s face and Mickey noticed the red ring on his finger, identical to the one in his own pocket. The heavy-set guard let Mr. Smith pass without hesitation, almost as if he didn’t even see him there, but stood in front of Mickey when he attempted to follow, effectively blocking his way.

“I'm with him,” he explained, pointing at Mr. Smith’s back because he didn’t turn to help Mickey at all.

The guard crossed his arms over his chest and Mickey huffed out in annoyance. “Come on, man. Let me pass.”

He glanced over to Mr. Smith, who was almost at the elevator now. His mind racing to figure out a way to get in, not wanting to be separated from the only person who seemed to have any answers. He wound his arm back and was about to take a swing at the guard when Mr. Smith’s voice carried over to him. “ _Put on the ring like I told you to_.”

Mickey lowered his clenched fist and chewed on his bottom lip. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the metal ring. He opened his palm and stared at the bulky hematite band. He never liked to wear jewelry, having learned early on that his brothers could use his chain to easily choke him while they wrestled.

The ring was too big for his taste, the gigantic, red, oval stone in the middle making it way to heavy to possibly be comfortable. Mickey reluctantly slid it onto his finger and almost yelped when he felt it tighten, conforming to the shape and size of his finger. Somehow the heavy ring felt weightless on his hand. Brows furrowed, he waved it in front of the guard like he’d seen Mr. Smith do, and the guard immediately stepped aside. He didn’t have time to think about what had just happened, once again running to catch up to Mr. Smith.

They stepped into the elevator together and Mickey watched the old man hold his ring up to the screen that typically showed the floor number. The little red LED lights illuminated in the shape of a star and the back wall of the elevator opened up without any warning.

Mr. Smith turned on his heel and walked out and down a long, sleek, white hallway with Mickey trailing a few steps behind him. They passed by countless offices with simple name plates on the grey doors: Mr. Johnson, Mrs. Williams, Mrs. Jones, Mr. Brown. Mickey took note of the boring, common last names until Mr. Smith stopped in front of one that didn’t have a name on it. He held the door open and indicated for Mickey to enter and take a seat. The furniture was modern and the solid colors put Mickey on edge.

“Wait here,” Mr. Smith told him, then closed the door behind him, leaving Mickey clueless and waiting alone in the plain, windowless office.

After what seemed like forever, a small woman with her brown hair in a tight bun walked in with a few folders in her arms. She dropped the folders onto the table and unbuttoned the jacket of her black pantsuit before she sat opposite Mickey. She stared at him with her sunglasses on, then gave him a tight-lipped smile and began speaking.

“Hello Mickey, I’m Mrs. Davis. I’m sure you have a lot of questions, but please try to hold them for now. We have a lot to get through, and it will go much more smoothly if you let me talk first.”

Mickey shut his mouth, swallowing the question that had been on the tip of his tongue. Mrs. Davis seemed to be waiting for him to reply so he gave her a curt nod.

“Very well then. Let’s begin,” she said, opening up one of the folders. She drew a pen out from her jacket pocket and clicked it open.

“You’ve been chosen to join the Company,” she began, putting a little check mark next to the first bullet point on her list.

“What Co-” Mickey asked, not knowing why _anyone_ would “choose” him for anything, but was cut off by a reprimanding look from Mrs. Davis. He pressed his lips together and raised his eyebrows, indicating that she could continue without further interruptions.

“As I was saying, you’ve been chosen to join Company. You will now join the ranks of your fellow reapers, all of whom have been carefully selected by the Head Office,” she told him, pointing up to the ceiling with her pen.

“You died,” she continued, “and the Company arranged it so that you could live again. This is your second chance at living, Mickey, and in return for this new life, you’ve become a reaper. And yes,” she said before he could open his mouth again, “there are more than one.” She shook her head disapprovingly at almost being interrupted again.

“You will report here every morning at nine am, Monday through Friday, and Mr. Smith will give you a list of souls to reap for that day. The list is sent down to us by the Head Office and has each person’s name, as well as the time and location of their death. To reap them, all you have to do is touch them with the stone on your ring,” she told him, tapping her own carefully.

Mickey suddenly remembered the man in the suit who had bumped into him and Colin at the garage. He ground his teeth as he remembered seeing the asshole’s ring, and slowly but surely understood the full implications of that casual encounter in hindsight.

“This conveniently brings us to the rings,” Mrs. Davis segued, drawing him from his angry memory. “Do _not_ remove your ring. It not only allows you reap, but also is your key to getting into the Company, keeps attention off of you in certain sticky situations, and keeps you from getting hurt.”

Mickey thought back to how the security guard at the entrance to the building had completely ignored Mr. Smith after he waved his ring in front of the guy’s face, and wondered just how much he could get away with. Mickey was confused by the last part though, about it keeping him from getting hurt. He looked at Mrs. Davis with a questioning expression.

 

“Let’s just say that some deaths are more dangerous than others, and you might have to be closer than you’d probably like to be in those situations,” Mrs. Davis explained. “So, if you’re wearing your ring,” she said, taking her pen and stabbing her own hand with it, clear-through. Mickey watched, horrified and wide-eyed, as she pulled the pen out and waved her fingers, showing him that she was fine. “Nothing happens,” she finished. “No pain, no injuries. Bottom line, it protects you, so _do not remove it_ ,” she repeated again.

Mickey could see the mark the pen had made in the table underneath Mrs. Davis’ hand when she moved it to add a few more checks to her list.

“However, reapers have rules they must adhere to, just like everyone else. First and foremost, there is no killing anyone who is not on your list. With many reapers, their first instinct is to go after the people who wronged them in their previous life. I strongly advise you against that,” she warned, looking at him sternly. “You cannot talk to anyone from your previous life and cannot reveal anything about your true job or former identity. Basically, if something is illegal for everyone else, it is illegal for you too.”

“So, to recap,” she said, flashing him a big smile, “think of your ring as a membership card. Once you touch the person on your list with it, their soul is marked, allowing for them to move on after their death,” she told him, adding her last check mark to the list and closing the folder.

“This job – this second chance – is a gift, Mickey. If you abuse your new power, your ring will be taken from you,” she told him carefully.

“I’ll take you to Mr. Smith’s office now, and he’ll finish up your orientation.” Mrs. Davis got up and led Mickey to the older man’s room, which came complete with his nondescript name plate and identical furniture.

“Mr. Smith has your keys and your Company credit card, and will answer any questions you might still have. Welcome to the Company.” With that said, she was gone, leaving Mickey alone once again with Mr. Smith, a man of few words. Not exactly his first of who to be around when he was so confused. His "orientation" had happened so quickly that he felt like he was drowning in a pool of unanswered questions. He didn't even know where to begin.

“Here you go,” the older man said, sliding a white envelope across the table to Mickey. He opened it to find the aforementioned keys and credit card.

“What are they for?” Mickey wondered.

“The keys are to your apartment. The address is on the back of the envelope,” he explained, “and the card is for your day-to-day expenses, rent, food, things of that nature. It is _not_ for funding a lavish lifestyle. Don’t do anything to attract undue attention to yourself,” he cautioned.

Mickey picked up the red credit card and examined it more closely, frowning. “Mickey Miller?” he questioned.

“New life, new name,” Mr. Smith told him. “You’ll be known as Mr. Miller from now on.”

Mickey chewed on his lip again. He didn’t know how he felt about all of this. It was definitely a lot to process. Even if he accepted the reaper bit, which he didn’t one hundred percent believe yet, he was having a hard time swallowing the whole “magic ring” part. He was supposed to believe that a ring that frankly resembled costume jewelry somehow was capable of “marking a soul”? It was more than a little unbelievable.

But then again, he had seen the blood welling out of his chest as they fled from the garage. He had felt the pain of the gunshot; in fact, he could still feel it. He had felt his life slipping away, even as Mandy struggled to keep pressure on his wound. He had to shut his eyes at the memory, the pain in his chest spiking when he thought about his sister.

“I don’t get a say in this?” he said, voice hoarse. He cleared his throat.

“About your name? Not really, there’s a list from the last census and we just go down-”

“Not about the name. Well, yes, the name, but not just that,” Mickey said, interrupting Mr. Smith. “I mean about any of this,” he clarified, waving his hand around to indicate the office, the Company, the whole shebang. “What if I don’t want to be a reaper? Why me and not someone else? Colin was killed at the same time. Why isn’t he the one here now? What the hell makes me so fucking special?”

Mr. Smith crossed his fingers and laid his hands on the desk. He stared intently at Mickey with a furrowed brow, the closest Mickey had seen to the man showing any sign of emotion.

“You would rather be dead?” he finally asked, flattening his hands onto the table, and tilting his head to the side while waiting for Mickey’s answer.

Mickey swallowed hard. The question had so much finality to it. But did he even have a choice? If he decided he didn’t want to be a reaper, would they kill him all over again? Mrs. Davis had told him this was his second chance at life. Would that chance end the minute he did something wrong? Mickey realized those were all questions he didn’t want to find out the answers to. He _liked_ being alive, even though he had nothing else to compare it to, save for the pain of dying.

“No,” he said with a quick shake of his head. “No, I wouldn’t.”

Mr. Smith gave him a curt nod. “Good.”

“Jesus Christ, I need a fucking cigarette,” Mickey muttered. He felt too overwhelmed by all the information they expected him to retain.

“Do you?” Mr. Smith asked him, cocking his head to the side.

Mickey furrowed his brow. What kind of fucking question was that? Of course he did. He always smoked when he was stressed. The thing was, as he sat there thinking about smoking, he realized he didn’t really want a cigarette; he had only said it out of habit. “The fuck?”

“Dying kills the urge to smoke, so to speak,” Mr. Smith told him.

Mickey stared at the man, not knowing if he was being serious. Did his new boss just make a fucking death pun?

“Well then, now that that’s settled, why don’t you follow me again, and we can move on to the hands-on portion of your training?”

Mr. Smith pushed his chair back and stood. He gave Mickey a folded piece of paper from his jacket pocket. Mickey opened the paper and saw a name, address and time printed on it in clean, black letters.

“So we’re just supposed to show up here and miraculously know who ‘Alexa Majors’ is?” he asked, pointing at the name and address.

“Precisely,” Mr. Smith agreed.

“But Millennium Park is gigantic. How the fuck are we supposed to find this chick in twenty minutes?” he asked, doing the quick calculation based on the time he saw on the clock above Mr. Smith’s desk.

“We’ll take a cab,” the older man said, like it was the most obvious solution in the world.

* * *

Mr. Smith walked out of the office and Mickey followed. They went down the hallway, past all the offices, and exited through the elevator. Everyone, including the security guard, ignored them on their way out of the museum, which had already opened for the day.

They stood on the street and Mr. Smith hailed a yellow cab which took them straight down Michigan Ave. to the corner of the park. He slid his red Company card through the credit card machine and even left a generous tip for the cabbie.

Mickey stepped out to the curb first, and the moment his feet touched the pavement, he could feel the pull. It started out gently at first, the heat from his ring began radiating into his hand, arm, then into the rest of his body. It got warmer as they walked deeper into the park, the subtle force drawing him forward, guiding him to the right spot.

Mickey knew who his mark was the moment he saw her. His ring pulsated with heat and energy, helping him zero in on her through the small crowd around him. The girl, Alexa, was a teenager. She had a private school uniform on, with her blonde hair in a ponytail, socks pulled up to her knees, a backpack over her shoulder and a couple of notebooks in her hands, held close to her chest. She was walking briskly beside the fountains, probably in a rush not to be late to school.

“You know what to do,” Mr. Smith told him, effectively nudging Mickey forward.

He chewed on his lip. “And what if I don’t touch her?” he asked.

Mr. Smith surprised him by laughing. Mickey spun to look at him, not sure he was hearing it properly.

“Fate has a funny way of dealing with things if the balance is upset,” Mr. Smith explained.

“So someone else will die in her place?” Mickey wondered, voicing his assumption.

“Hopefully it’s as simple as that. Accidents begin to happen around the person who should have died, until the wrong is righted. Meanwhile, only God knows who else will get hurt in the process until that finally happens…” he said with a shrug.

It was the first time Mickey had heard any mention of God since he’d died, and he wasn’t sure if it was a slip, a casual use of the common expression, or if Mr. Smith was referring to the higher being. Was the Head Office that Mrs. Davis had referred to actually God?

He didn’t get a chance to ask; the ring’s draw was too strong. It pulled him closer until he was standing only inches away from the girl. He clenched his fingers into a first and brushed the red stone against the student’s arm. The moment the ring came into contact with her, the energy was released. Mickey stumbled, trying to regain his balance now that the magnetic draw was gone.

He turned to watch the girl behind him. In her haste to get to wherever she’d been going, the girl tripped over a crack in the uneven pavement, falling to the ground with a loud thud. Her head hit the concrete with such force that Mickey heard the sound of splintering bone and winced. Her notebooks were splayed out on the sidewalk beside her, and dark, red blood the color of his ring began pooling around her head. Mickey saw a light, almost like an aura, rise from her body and float up into the clouds, unnoticed by the onlookers who had gathered around the poor girl’s body.

“So that’s it?” Mickey asked Mr. Smith, who had come to stand beside him. It had happened so fast. He wondered why his run-in with the guy who reaped him at the garage had been different. His reaper had touched him at least fifteen minutes before he’d died.

He didn’t get a chance to ask Mr. Smith. The older man nodded. “Good work, Mr. Miller. You should go home now and make sure everything is to your liking. I’ll see you Monday morning in my office.”

Mickey stood there for another hour after Mr. Smith walked away. He watched as the police and the paramedics showed up, lingered when they questioned the people nearby about what had happened. No one noticed him, of course. He tried to process his feelings about everything and about what he had done. He wondered how many people’s lives he would have to take in exchange for his new life.

Oddly enough, it was his growling stomach that tore him away from the scene before him. He felt like he hadn’t eaten in a week. For all he knew, that was probably accurate. He reached into his pocket and pulled out they key and the envelope he’d been given at the Company.

* * *

He walked to his new apartment, stopping to buy a pizza on his way there. He walked into the building lobby, box in hand, smirking as the doorman didn’t even make eye contact with him. The ring definitely had its perks. Mickey proceeded to take the stairs up to the third floor of the building, found the room that said #305 and slid the key in.

He half expected it not to work, which wouldn’t have surprised him. His luck to date hadn’t been the greatest, after all, but the lock clicked as he turned the key, tumblers falling into place, and he carefully pushed the door open to reveal his new home.

The apartment wasn’t at all what he’d thought it would be, especially after being in the stark offices of the Company earlier that morning. This place looked _comfortable_ , completely his style. That was the best way he could think to describe it. There was nothing too lavish or modern about it. In fact, as he walked in and inspected it further, scoping out the single bedroom and the fresh, clean bathroom, he realized the fanciest thing in the whole apartment was the closet, neatly arranged with a row of black suits, white shirts, leather shoes and black ties.

As he collapsed onto the couch and stuffed his face with a slice of pizza, he couldn’t help but hope that things would be different for him this time around, now that he’d been given a second chance.


	3. So This Is Life

Mickey spent the weekend lying on his couch, watching mindless television and ordering food to be delivered to him instead of going outside into the real world, preferring the safety and comfort of his little apartment. He wasn’t exactly proud of himself, but it was his way of coping with the weight of his new reality.

When Monday morning rolled around, Mickey begrudgingly put on one of the suits from the repertoire of formal attire in his possession. He looked at himself in the mirror and straightened his tie, then sighed when he saw his tattooed knuckles in his reflection. He couldn’t help but feel like someone somewhere along the line had fucked up and accidentally picked him to be a reaper instead of whoever else was “really” supposed to have the job.

He showed up at the Water Tower a few minutes before nine, walked into the building and past the security guard without a hitch, went through the strange elevator, down the hall and entered Mr. Smith’s office right on time. His list for the day had five names on it, which wasn’t as bad as he’d been expecting it to be. In addition, the locations were scattered all around the downtown Chicago area and spread out evenly throughout the day.

His first mark of the day was an elderly woman named Evelyn Clark, though he didn’t know that she was elderly until he saw her. She was asleep when Mickey arrived at her small brownstone. The front door clicked open as he approached it, and he walked through the home and to her bedroom, the draw of the ring guiding him the entire way. He touched the ring to her frail shoulder and watched as she took one final, shuddering breath. A soft, glowing light surrounded her, then rose up and disappeared into the ceiling. Mickey let himself out and pulled the door closed behind him, as if he’d never been there at all.

His second reaping was a bit more exciting, if a death could ever really be thought of like that. His list told him that he had to go a train station in the Loop to find a man named Andrew Li, but when he got to the elevated platform, the man he was supposed to reap had already jumped down onto the tracks. Mickey checked the time on the digital clock above the waiting room at the station and saw that he only had a minute left.

He hesitated for a moment, then forced himself to jump down, not wanting to screw up on his first day of work. To his relief, no one even spared him a second glance. He carefully moved towards the guy, going as quickly as he could while trying not to get a leg stuck or fall through the tracks below him. The train was close, the engineer beeping the its horn as he approached the station. Unfortunately for him, it was an express, and was going way too fast to be able to stop before killing them.

Mickey still hoped he would be able to reap Mr. Li with enough time left to climb back up, but that proved to be impossible. As it was, he barely touched him before the train whizzed by, flattening both of them underneath it.

Once it had passed over them completely, Mickey sat up. He could see parts of Andrew Li’s destroyed body strewn everywhere, whereas he was whole, uninjured, untouched by the carnage, able to stand up and walk away unscathed. He smiled appreciatively at the red ring, and from the corner of his eye, saw Mr. Li’s aura slowly rise up from the many pieces he was in, form a small, cohesive cloud, then rise up into the sky.

Mickey saw that he had an hour before his next mark so he decided to stop at a nearby diner for lunch. He was drawn in by the fact that the place accepted credit cards, since he hadn’t quite figured out how else to pay for things yet. The waitress who greeted him was friendly enough, even though she seemed unreasonably chipper and a bit too intent on telling him what the specials were. It felt strange to talk to someone other than Mr. Smith, but Mickey was realizing that the “ignore you” benefit of his ring didn’t interfere with keeping him from being noticed if _he_ was the one to initiate a conversation.

Mickey ordered a cheeseburger and a slice of pie, and the waitress actually scolded him for ordering dessert too early, saying it was something her little siblings did because their eyes were bigger than their bellies.

He ate his meal quietly while watching the other people in the diner. He couldn’t help but wonder when and how these strangers would die, and whether or not he would have to be the one to reap them. His thoughts had understandably taken a morbid turn over the course of the last couple of days. He hadn’t realized until now just how many people died around him, since the only time he ever heard about it was when it was a violent death, like murder.

When it was time to leave, Mickey looked around for his waitress, hoping to signal her to bring his check over. He could see her flirting with her manager behind the counter. He cleared his throat and she looked up, embarrassed, then came over and closed up his ticket. He left her a generous tip because she looked like she needed it, and because it wasn’t exactly _his_ money he was spending.

The next name on his list was Larry Goulding. He went into the ordinary downtown office building and took the elevator up to the fourteenth floor. His ring pulled him towards the proper cubicle, and as he rounded the corner, Mickey could see a robust man sitting in front of the computer, munching on a chocolate bar. He tapped the man on his shoulder with the red stone and felt the instant release of energy.

Mr. Goulding clutched at his chest, started panting, struggled to take in air, then suddenly stopped. It was that simple, that quick. The fat man having a heart attack wasn’t the most surprising thing to ever happen, but Mickey was a little shocked by how little he cared. The reapings were becoming easier and easier to file away, and he was only on his fourth one ever…

Mickey took a short cab ride over to the hospital, his next stop. He walked through the secure emergency room doors and was surprised when his ring led him away from the trauma center, past the intensive care unit, and to the oncology ward. He walked down the hall, around the nurse’s station, and into the room where Stephanie Vasquez was lying on the hospital bed. She was awake, but took no note of Mickey when he entered the room. She was staring to the side of her bed, at a small table where there were framed pictures of her family.

He hesitated before touching her with his ring, the thrum from it strong, the heat coursing through his hand. He stepped around her, to where her gaze still lingered, and picked up one of the frames. She closed her eyes while Mickey examined the photo closer. Stephanie was standing in front of a ferris wheel with a kid in her arms, no older than four years old.

Mickey realized he wasn’t stalling because he felt bad about reaping her soul, but rather because of how happy the kid in the picture looked. He was jealous; it was something his family had never done. He put the frame back onto the table and touched the red stone to Stephanie Vasquez’s forehead, releasing the energy of the ring. She never opened her eyes. but had a small smile on her face as her the light around her slowly floated up, away from her body.

From that point on, he couldn’t stop thinking about his family ‒ about Mandy, in particular ‒ but the rules he’d been given said he couldn’t. He was not allowed to talk to anyone from his previous life.

Seeing his sister was on the forefront of his mind while he reaped his last mark of the day, a homeless man in an alleyway, simply named Chip. Mickey needed to see Mandy. The need was as strong as the pull of the ring.

Mickey ultimately decided to not throw away his second chance after only one day on the job. He went to his apartment like a good little employee, ordered some Chinese food and pushed down the urge to break the rules so early in the game. He ate his dinner while watching TV, then crashed into his new bed.

* * *

Mickey stuck to the same routine the next morning. He got up and took a shower, slipped into a fresh black suit, went to the Company and got his list from Mr. Smith, and went about the work day. He reaped six souls on Tuesday.

He did the same thing on Wednesday too, the only difference being that there were seven souls to reap instead of six. Thursday went the same as the previous three days, but with eight souls reaped instead of seven.

The number of names on his list kept increasing, even though most of the deaths were non-violent. He guessed that the gang violence he was used to seeing and hearing about was more of a night thing, and he had the daytime shift. Plus, he was one reaper, from a Company of many. Chicago was a big city though, and he wasn’t too surprised by the sheer volume of deaths each day.

* * *

He was walking home after work on Thursday when the L train rattled past him on the tracks overhead. It was a familiar sound, one that reminded him of home. He started thinking about Mandy again, only this time the need to see his sister wasn’t something he could push away. He may not have been allowed to go and talk to her, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t check up on her and see how she was doing.

He carefully made his way over to the South Side, back to his old neighborhood, constantly looking over his shoulder to make sure no one was following him or watching him, even though the idea of being stalked by the Company was kind of ridiculous. It was almost dark when he got there, the setting sun casting an eerie, orange glow on every surface its rays touched. He waited across the street from his old house, in the shadows, watching his family through the window.

They were laughing. Terry had just told a joke and his siblings were _laughing_. He didn’t know what he’d expected to see, what he’d _wanted_ to see, but somehow, this wasn’t it. They were okay without him. Mandy was okay. So why was he still standing there? Why was he still watching them? He’d done what he’d set out to do, which was to check that she was alright, and she was fine.

He had to go.

But he couldn’t go. He stood rooted to the sidewalk, just standing across the street, watching, waiting. He didn’t even know what he was waiting for. He stood there for so long that the streetlights turned on.

After a while, Mandy got up and went to the kitchen, then walked outside with a big bag of trash in her hands. Mickey instinctively turned away to make sure she wouldn’t accidentally see him and recognize him, even at a distance, completely forgetting that he was a reaper now.

_He had to go._

He somehow managed to move one foot and place it in front of the other, forced himself to repeat the process again and again, until he was walking away, leaving, albeit slowly... but then he heard a strangled sob come from behind him. He stopped dead in his tracks, ears searching for the source of the sound.

It came from across the street. It came from Mandy.

He hadn’t intended on talking to her. He’d honestly gone there with the intention of only watching her from a distance, making sure she was okay, but when he heard her cry…

She _wasn’t_ okay. She was so close. She was hurting. He had to do something. He had to help her.

“Mandy!” he called, jogging across the street. She looked up, startled, quickly brushing her tears away with the back of her hand. That was typical of his sister, always acting tough.

“Who the fuck wants to know?” she called, squaring her shoulders at him, but he could tell by the way she took a step back towards the house that she was more than a little wary of him.

“It’s me,” he said, stepping in through the metal gate. He moved closer and out of the dark so that she could see him more clearly. Mickey knew that she thought he was dead, so he prepared himself for the inevitable freak-out she would have once she saw it was him.

“Whatever it is you want, you’re not getting it from me,” she said, taking another step back. “I ain’t a fuckin’ rat,” she spat. “I don’t care if you’re with the Feds or what, but you’re on private property so either you show me a fucking warrant, or you back the fuck up.”

“Relax,” he told her, smiling. “It’s okay. It’s me, it’s Mickey,” he said. She stared at him, clearly speechless. “I’m fine,” he continued, thinking she needed some time to process it all. “I’m not dead.”

Her stunned look twisted into an expression of disgust. She reached for her pocket and pulled out her collapsible baton, whipped it open with a flick of her wrist, and raised her arms up into a fighting stance before he had even a second to react.

“Mandy, what the fuck…” Mickey muttered, shocked by her violent reception of him. He didn’t understand why the hell she was so angry. He’d been ready for “shocked”, “skeptical”, “relieved”, maybe even “overjoyed”, but “furious” was definitely not something he thought his sister would be at seeing him.

“You sick fucking bastard!” she shouted, taking a swing at his head with the baton.

He blocked it with his arm, like the blow was nothing, the magic of his ring working seamlessly to protect him from physical harm. “What are-”

She swung again, not letting him get another word in, catching him just above his elbow this time. It didn’t hurt, but the commotion was enough to rouse his brother and father from their television trance. Both men came rushing out of the house, Terry wielding a shotgun and Iggy holding up a bat.

“‘The _fuck_ is going on here?” Terry shouted, taking aim with the gun. Mickey raised his hands up and took an immediate step back.

Mickey didn't bother trying to explain. Once his dad went on the offensive, he was impossible to reason with. Still confused as hell by their reactions, he decided to get the fuck out of there as quickly as possible, turned tail and ran. He heard a shot fired behind him, followed by little pops on the ground around his feet and small splinters in the wooden fence beside him, but if he was hit by any of the pellets, he wasn't aware of it.

He ran until he was clear of the house, clear of the street, clear of the neighborhood, only stopping once to catch his breath right before taking the stairs up to the L platform. He rode the train in silence, mind racing, going over the night's events to figure out what the hell went wrong.

His heart was still pounding when he got back home. He went to bed as soon as he stepped foot into the apartment, hoping that sleep would erase what had just happened with his family.

* * *

Mickey wasn't that lucky. When he woke up the next morning, he was just as miserable and confused as he'd been when he'd gone to bed eight hours ago.

He forced himself to get up and take a shower. Mickey got dressed while eating a Poptart he hadn't bothered to toast, careful to not get any crumbs on his suit. The final step was to put on the leather shoes, and once he'd done that, he was ready to go.

He opened the door and stumbled backwards. To say he was startled would be an understatement. Mr. Smith was standing just inches in front of him, arms crossed over his chest, eyes radiating disapproval through the dark, black shades.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” Mickey shouted, struggling to regain his balance.

Mr. Smith remained silent and judgy, so Mickey had to speak again.

“Am I late or something?” he asked, eyes flicking to the time on the microwave. He still had twenty minutes before he had to be at his boss's office to pick up his list.

“The rules are simple, Mr. Miller,” the older man said in a calm, calculated tone. Mickey couldn't stop himself from chewing on his bottom lip, a nervous habit, but even worse, an admission of guilt.

Then he did something that made Mickey rethink his assumptions about the man: he fucking _chuckled_.

Mickey knit his brows together and stared at Mr. Smith, waiting for him to explain.

“I’m surprised it took you so long to make contact. Honestly…” he began saying, full-on smiling now, “we had a pool going at the Company and not one single reaper thought you’d last this long.” He clapped Mickey on the shoulder, probably as a sign of camaraderie or congratulations, but all it did was freak Mickey the fuck out.

“You almost made it a whole week,” his boss happily told him. “I told Mrs. Davis that you were a good choice, that you’d make a strong reaper.”

That almost sounded like a compliment. “Wait, you mean you knew I would break the rule?” he wondered, still not sure why the older man was in such a good mood.

Mr. Smith nodded. “Everyone breaks it. It’s the first thing they do when they leave the building after orientation. They either try to reconnect with their loved ones, resolve some unfinished business, or take advantage of their new ‘abilities’ to get some revenge on those who wronged them. Don’t beat yourself up about it,” he added with a small shrug. “Power just seems to corrupt even those with the best intentions.”

Mickey was still confused, not just about Mr. Smith’s unexpected reaction, but also his presence there. Nothing made any sense to him. “So I’m not… fired?” he asked.

Mr. Smith shook his head.

“Then why are you here?” Mickey followed up.

“I came to show you why everything went wrong last night,” he explained, rather genially. Mickey had to admit, this side of his boss was a bit off-putting, but his desire for answers overpowered his weariness about Mr. Smith suddenly behaving like a relatively normal person.

The older man pulled out his cell phone and scrolled through it while Mickey wondered about whether it was a Company phone or not, and if so, why he hadn’t gotten one. Finding whatever application he had been looking for, he held the phone up and took a picture of Mickey, stunning him with the flash.

He blinked until his vision was clear, then Mr. Smith came forward and showed him the screen. “This is what you look like to the outside world,” he said, pointing at the image.

Mickey stared at the photo, not making sense of it. The man in the picture was him: same suit, same annoyed scowl at being photographed, same apartment in the background… but it didn’t look a damn thing like him, because the guy in the phone was very tan, with dull, brown hair and ever duller brown eyes. He was basically the opposite of Mickey in every way imaginable.

“That’s not me,” Mickey scoffed, shoving the phone away.

“Indeed, Mr. Miller, it is,” Mr. Smith insisted, nodding.

Mickey huffed out in annoyance. “Nah, man. I’ve seen my reflection and it doesn’t look a thing like _that_ ,” he said, eyebrows rising to challenge his boss.

“Not to you, and not to me,” the older man agreed. “And not to any other reapers… but to everyone _else_ , it does.”

“You’re fucking serious?” No, he couldn’t be serious… but the more he thought about it, the more he realized how much it explained. Of course Mandy had been furious when he’d told her who he was. Mickey frowned, his face twisting in disgust.

Mr. Smith nodded again, but Mickey could swear he saw the man’s eyes twinkling from behind his sunglasses. He was _enjoying_ seeing Mickey struggle to come to grips with the fact that he looked completely and utterly _boring_.

“So if I look like your average Joe Schmoe, what the hell do you look like?”

His boss outright grinned, removed his sunglasses, and took a fucking selfie. _A selfie_. Mickey was speechless as he peered at the screen and saw a woman who basically looked like Oprah.

“You’re…” he started, closing his mouth hard, swallowing, and trying again. “You’re a woman?”

“I always admired her,” Mr. Smith said. “Before I died. She is such a strong, powerful woman. Deep down, I wondered what it would have been like to have been born a woman, and to command the respect someone like her does... I guess someone was listening,” he finished, returning his sunglasses to their rightful location on the bridge of his nose.

“Then why the hell did I get stuck with the most unremarkable look ever?” he complained again, not really expecting an answer. He was disgusted by his appearance; he looked like such a fuckin’ loser.

He wondered why this wasn’t something explained to him during his orientation. Was it a fucking test or something? To see how long it took him to fuck up? Or did they genuinely hope they wouldn’t have to tell him he looked different? As if he wouldn’t figure it out eventually... He was annoyed about it either way.

“What about my tats?” he asked, flexing his knuckles. “Do I still have them?”

Mr. Smith shook his head. “No scars or birthmarks either,” he told him.

“Wait a sec,” Mickey said. “Does that make you ‘ _Mrs._ Smith’?” He wasn’t making a joke or anything, but genuinely wanted to know and therefore had to ask, however tactlessly he did it.

“Mr. Smith is fine,” he told him, not appearing offended. “To the rest of the world, my title is ‘Doctor’, so it makes things easier.” He slipped his phone back into his jacket pocket and drew out Mickey’s list for the day. He passed it to him and Mickey looked it over. It had seven names on it, one less than the prior day.

“Only seven today?” he wondered. He’d been sure that the numbers would just continue to increase.

“We never know how many there will be. It changes, but I’d say it’ll average between five and ten each day. The reapers on the night shift get a bit more. The ones on the weekends get a bit less,” his boss supplied, being extra chatty.

“Your first reaping isn't until after lunch. You should stop for a nice breakfast,” he suggested, walking through the front door. “Don’t forget the sunglasses,” he warned just as he left the apartment, leaving Mickey alone with his list and a boatload of new questions.


	4. You Calling Me Gay?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next few chapters are definitely smut-heavy. Hopefully no one will complain, lol.

After Mr. Smith left his apartment, Mickey folded his list and stuffed it into his jacket pocket. The first location wasn’t too far from the diner he’d eaten at on his first real day on the job, so he decided to go back there for more pie, since it had actually tasted pretty fucking delicious the last time he’d ordered it.

The brown-haired waitress from his previous visit led him over to the booth at the end. He slid into the far side, which afforded him a clear view of everyone else in the diner, as well as the people walking past him on the sidewalk. He ordered a slice of pumpkin pie and some coffee, then sat back and watched life go on around him. People rushed to work, with no idea that it could all end in an instant, just like his had. All their anxiety and stress seemed pointless to Mickey. He didn’t know who he felt more sorry for: these random people who didn’t know what lay around the corner for them, or himself.

Faced with the new information he’d learned from Mr. Smith, he couldn’t stop thinking about ways to circumvent the problem of his changed appearance. Maybe he could reason with Mandy, say something to her that proved who he really was ‒ like telling her something only _he_ would’ve known, for example ‒ in order to convince her that he wasn’t some crazy, malicious psychopath. Only, he had a feeling he wouldn’t even be able to get that far. His sister was not one to let anyone fuck around with her.

He had no idea what to do next. He missed Mandy terribly, and after so many years of being stuck with her always bugging him, calling him a dickhead by default even though she didn't really mean any of it, he felt directionless and more than a little lonely. Would he really have to go the rest of his new life without talking to his sister again?

“What’s got you all depressed?” his waitress asked, bringing the pie over. She poured hot coffee into his mug from the pot she was holding and put her other arm on her hip, studying him. She looked genuinely concerned.

“M’fine,” he said, brushing her off. The truth was that he was anything but fine, but he obviously wasn’t as good at keeping in his feelings as he thought he was.

“You don’t look fine,” the waitress said, confirming it.

Mickey snorted. “New job. It’s been a busy week,” he told her, hoping it would be enough to get her to leave him alone.

“Good thing it’s Friday then, right? Got any plans for the weekend?”

Mickey remembered how she’d been flirting with her boss the last time he’d come in, and wondered if she was only harassing him because the manager wasn’t at the diner today. She smiled genuinely at him, waiting for an answer, as if she actually cared what he had to say, so maybe she did? It was fucking weird is what it was.

“Not really,” he muttered, picking up his fork, hoping she would see that he was ready to eat and would leave him be.

“My brother was talking about a new club that opened up in Boystown. If you don’t have any other plans, you should check it out,” she offered.

Mickey’s eyes darted to hers, ready to deny whatever she was accusing him of, but he didn’t see any malice there. She wasn’t accusing him of anything, just offering a suggestion for something for him to do.

“Anyway, I’ll leave you to it,” she said, nodding to the pie. “Pumpkin’s my favorite too. I took a whole pie home.” And just like that, she went back to the counter, like she hadn’t just casually implied that he was gay, or zeroed in on his feelings of loneliness. He didn’t even get a chance to ask how she had known.

Mickey felt stuck, like he was torn between calling out that he wasn’t a fucking faggot and just leaving, but the former would have been stupid because his waitress had already made it to the other side of the diner. Shouting to her back seemed rather ineffective and pointless, and he'd be making a bigger scene just by reacting to it too late. The latter option of leaving would feel too much like running away, and Mickey Milkovich didn't fucking run away from shit.

But it suddenly dawned on him that he wasn't Mickey Milkovich anymore, at least not to the rest of the world. He was Mickey Miller, a boring, ordinary, apparently obviously gay-looking man. Mickey Miller didn't have a homophobic dad to worry about. Mickey Miller didn't live in the South Side, where he would be beaten up or worse if people found out about his sexuality. Mickey Miller didn't have to hide this part of his life anymore.

How long had it been since he'd had a good fuck? He suspected that last time had been in Juvie, well over a year ago. It may have been pathetic, not hooking up with anyone for so long, but there hadn't exactly been anything else he could have done about it. The fear of being caught by his dad had been too overwhelming for him to risk it. That had been his life: hiding, holding back, being careful and denying who he was.

Things were different now. His situation had changed, and he had a lot to think about.

* * *

He finished his pie and went to work, reaping the names on his list even though his mind was elsewhere. Even though the idea of getting laid to make himself feel better about his new life was pretty fucking hilarious, he was seriously considering it. Before he knew it, his day and flown by and he only had one name left on his list: Robert Mathieson.

Mickey arrived at the fancy, downtown hotel five minutes earlier than he was supposed to. He walked through the lobby and over to the elevator bank, riding up the first one that arrived. He stepped out onto the fifteenth floor and followed the pull of his ring down the hall, passing by the other rooms until he stood in front of the one he could _feel_ was the right one. He was able to open the door without a key, as usual, so he walked into the room, where he finally saw his mark.

Mr. Mathieson was in bed, but he wasn’t alone. A pale-skinned, black-haired woman in lacy, black lingerie was riding him mercilessly. Mickey would have felt bad about intruding into the private scene if not for the fact that the man he was there to reap was babbling about how wonderful the woman with him was _compared to his wife_.

Mickey sauntered over to the bed and ‒ ignoring the prostitute as best he could ‒ touched the red stone to the adulterer’s cheek. He felt the energy flow through the ring and into Mr. Mathieson, but didn’t stick around to watch the aftermath. He heard the woman screaming in Russian as he made his way out of the room.

* * *

When Mickey got back to his apartment, he heated up some leftover pizza from the previous night for dinner and ate it in front of the TV. He debated whether or not he should go out, and ultimately decided that it couldn’t hurt. He went to his room to change but grunted when he opened the closet and remembered he had nothing to wear besides his work suits, and those were dwindling. He made a mental note to stop at the dry cleaners at some point during the weekend.

Annoyed by his lack of options, Mickey put on a clean white shirt. He washed his hands and ran his fingers through his hair, not sure if it even mattered. Before leaving, he looked at himself in the mirror and sighed. At least _he_ didn’t have to see the other him all the time.

* * *

He had never been to Boystown, but it wasn’t hard to figure out which one was the new club his waitress had mentioned; it was the one with the line that extended around the block. Mickey was able to walk in without waiting or paying a cover, a perk of being unnoticeable. The downside, he soon realized, was that he was the one who had to do the picking up, because unless he spoke first, the guys inside didn’t even know he was there.

Mickey was starting to think he had made a terrible mistake in going out to the club. He hated dancing, was terrible at making small-talk, and had spent the last two hours sitting at the bar, drinking beer after beer by himself. He’d resorted to people-watching, but even on the few occasions when he’d worked up the courage to stutter out a word or two to someone who happened to be standing beside him while ordering drinks, Mickey hadn’t had an luck. It seemed like everything ‒ especially his new, lackluster appearance ‒ was working against him.

He picked at the label on his bottle, contemplating if the guy from the hotel had the right idea ‒ not about the cheating-on-his-wife bit, but about hiring a hooker. He wondered if his Company credit card would even work for something like that. Maybe if he got one of those high-end male escorts, he could pay with a card? It seemed to be working just fine on the drinks he kept ordering. He laughed at the thought of hiring someone to fuck, shaking his head slightly at how pathetic he sounded in his own head.

“What’s so funny?” someone asked from beside him.

Mickey’s eyes widened and he turned to see who was talking to him. A tall redhead standing a couple of feet to his left smiled at him. He was leaning forward against the bar, waiting for the bartender to notice him.

Mickey looked to his right to make sure he wasn’t mistakenly interrupting the guy’s conversation with someone else before responding. “You’re talkin’ to me?” he asked warily.

The redhead’s smile grew, if that was possible, and he slid onto the stool beside Mickey. “Yeah I’m talking to you,” he said, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Do you see anyone else here?”

Mickey shrugged. It was a stupid question since the redhead had just seen him check. He frowned, torn between wanting to talk to the hot guy who clearly, beyond all odds, was interesting in him, and not knowing what the hell to say. He bit his lip, wondering why he was so fucking bad at this. The annoying, logical part of his brain answered, telling him it was due to a major lack of practice. He told that logical part to shut the fuck up.

“This is the part where you offer to buy me a drink,” the redhead supplied.

Mickey breathed a small sigh, relieved that the guy wasn’t totally turned off by his lack of game. He felt his cheeks get warm so he moved quickly, motioning for the bartender to bring him two more beers.

“I’m Ian,” the redhead told him. “Haven’t seen you here before…”

“I thought the place just opened,” Mickey said, voice hitching at the end to make it a question.

“I meant in general,” Ian amended. “You’re _new_.”

Mickey chewed on his bottom lip. “Fresh meat?” he offered, only sounding half bitter as he said it.

“Hah,” Ian huffed, grinning. “Yeah, I guess so, because I definitely would have remembered you.”

Mickey barked out a laugh because Ian had no idea how completely wrong he was on that count. The grim reaper thing would have made it pretty fucking impossible for him to be memorable. “Right...” he said sarcastically.

“I’m serious,” Ian insisted. “With eyes like that?” he said in the most pathetic, flirty voice Mickey had ever heard. “I feel like I’m looking into the ocean.”

Mickey scowled then, offended that Ian was teasing him. He knew his eyes looked like a dull, light brown to everyone else. Ian’s comment was just uncalled for. “Yeah, some dirty-ass, polluted fucking ocean…”

Ian looked at him with furrowed brows but didn’t argue. He must have caught on to the fact that he was making Mickey uncomfortable. The bartender came over with their beers and popped the caps off the bottles for them. Mickey slid one over to Ian.

“I’ve been trying to get the bartender’s attention for like ten minutes,” Ian explained, gratefully accepting the drink.

Mickey held up his bottle and Ian clinked his against it at the neck. He watched Ian take a sip, his adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed the cold liquid.

“Thanks,” Ian told him, putting the bottle down onto the bartop, effectively tearing Mickey’s attention away from his throat and mouth. “So, you gonna tell me your name? Or should I just go around calling you ‘fresh meat’?”

Mickey unwillingly laughed at Ian’s lame joke.

“Ah, there’s that smile again.”

He knew he was blushing. He just wasn’t used to being flirted with. “I’m Mickey,” he offered.

“Mickey,” Ian repeated with a nod, seeming to test the name out on his tongue. “Do you want to go dance with me, Mickey?” Ian asked, motioning to the dance floor behind them.

Mickey adamantly shook his head. “I think the world is better off with me sitting right here,” he said, alluding to his lack of dancing skills.

“Oh,” Ian said, failing at hiding his disappointment. “Maybe you need to be drinking something stronger than beer then? Something to give you some courage?” he jibed, raising his eyebrows and cocking his head to the side as he said it, again with the fucking teasing.

Mickey flipped him off because beer was definitely his go-to, especially if he was drinking it just to pass the time. Despite Mickey’s reaction, Ian kept grinning. “Happy” was definitely a good look on Ian… or maybe _everything_ was a good look on him. Mickey hadn’t known he had a thing for redheads until that very moment.

Ian tilted his bottle back and swallowed down the rest of the beer, then reached over and took Mickey’s drink too. He started to object but Ian silenced him by holding up one finger until he killed Mickey’s beer too.

“Relax, he said. “You’ve had like ten of them in the last hour; I’m just catching up.”

“You were watching me?” he asked. Old Mickey would have punched his face in for saying something so lame and gay, but New Mickey felt all warm and tingly from the blatant flattery.

Ian shrugged, so Mickey ordered them two more beers. He paid for them and slid his red card back into his pocket, marveling at how quickly he’d gotten used to having his expenses taken care of by the Company.

“Thanks again,” Ian told him.

Mickey was curious about Ian. He wanted to know if he was there alone, or if he had a date with him. Maybe he had come out with friends. So far, all he knew about the guy was that he frequented the club scene and didn’t respect the power of a good bottle of beer.

He wondered if he should say something to engage him, to keep him from getting bored and going back to whoever he came with, but that required more confidence than Mickey possessed at the moment. So instead of saying anything, he continued drinking his beer, watching Ian in his periphery and making awkward eye contact every once in a while.

He tried not to be too obvious about studying Ian, but made certain observations nevertheless. It was hard to be sure, given the club’s terrible lighting, but he thought Ian’s hair was more of a dark, reddish brown than the typical orange hue most redheads had. It suited him, matched his light, freckle-covered skin. His eyes were green, something Mickey had noticed right off the bat but had been able to confirm with more and more certainty after each smile Ian flashed at him. Ian was tall, more than half a head taller than Mickey despite the fact that they were sitting down. On more than one of Mickey’s peeks at Ian, he noticed his long fingers which clasped the beer bottle tightly and he itched to touch and be touched by them.

Ian was the one to finally break the silence. “I have to go to the bathroom.” He looked at Mickey and raised his eyebrows. “Want to come?”

Mickey frowned. He totally got what Ian was insinuating, and _fuck yeah_ he wanted it, but he wasn’t too keen on the idea of hooking up in a club bathroom where anyone and their uncle could just walk in on them. New life or not, it wasn’t really the most appealing idea.

Before he could even think about what he was saying, the words were out of his mouth. “My apartment’s not far…”

He made eye contact with Ian for like a second before he looked away in embarrassment. Ian jumped up off the stool like a kid who’d just been asked if he wanted to go play at the park.

“Fuck yeah,” Ian said, echoing Mickey’s own thoughts and making him feel a little more confident about his offer. “Lead the way.”

It wasn’t until he stood up that Mickey felt the weight of just how much he’d had to drink. It was just beer, perhaps, but apparently they added up.

He stumbled but regained his balance and tried to continue walking in a relatively straight line towards the exit, failing miserably. Ian grabbed his arm to steady him and they walked out of the club together.

* * *

Once they were outside in the cool, night air, Mickey watched Ian take his phone out and send someone a text. It was probably to whomever he came to the club with, but he didn’t ask. When he was done, he swapped the phone for a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He held it out to Mickey, silently offering him one, but Mickey begrudgingly shook his head.

Mickey hadn’t thought about smoking for a whole week, and declining to do so now, even though it was so easy, felt uncharacteristic of him. He chose to hail a cab instead of dwelling on it too long. When one pulled over for them, Mickey got in and gave the driver his address. Ian tossed aside his cigarette and got in beside him.

Mickey felt weird once the cab was moving, because he didn’t know what kind of conversation he was supposed to have with Ian when they were on their way to his place to fuck. He bit his lip, his typical nervous response, but Ian reached a hand up and pulled it out from between his teeth with his thumb. He turned in his seat to face Mickey and leaned forward, placing a gentle kiss on Mickey’s lips. Mickey’s eyes stayed open and he automatically glanced at the cabdriver in fear, sighing infinitesimally in relief when he saw the guy wasn’t looking. Or maybe he just didn’t give a shit, since he had picked them up in Boystown, after all.

Ian pulled back and looked at Mickey’s face, studying his reaction. He smiled, Mickey cringed, then Ian huffed out a laugh. “Don’t act like this is your first kiss,” he teased. Mickey kept silent rather than admit that it _was_ his first kiss.

Ian went in for another one, this time letting his lips rest against Mickey’s for longer. Mickey felt Ian’s breath on him, felt the warmth of it against his mouth, felt Ian part his lips just enough for his tongue to slip through and lick at Mickey’s lips. It was happening whether Mickey was nervous and clueless about what to do or not, so he closed his eyes and let Ian do his thing.

And do it he did.

He slid his hand around Mickey’s waist and up his back, flattened it against his shoulder blade and pulled Mickey closer. Mickey laughed softly against Ian’s mouth. His first night out and he was already making out with a guy in the back of the cab.

“What-” Ian began to ask but Mickey cut him off, crashing his lips against Ian’s again, harder than before. He playfully bit at Ian’s lower lip, sucking on it, and when Ian slid his tongue out again, Mickey opened his mouth and allowed him to press it into his.

Ian pulled him closer, deepening their kiss, and Mickey had absolutely no complaints, completely lost in the moment.

The cab stopped and the driver called out the fare to them without looking back. Mickey let go of Ian and cleared his throat, fetched his card out of his pocket and slid it through the reader.

They got out and walked into the building, up to his floor, but it was like Mickey couldn’t fit the key into the lock fast enough, even dropping it on the ground outside his apartment door. He bent to pick it up and when he stood, he noticed Ian staring at him hungrily. Mickey rolled his eyes and finally got the lock open.

It was a weird feeling, bringing someone back to his place. It was new to him, to have the freedom and safety to do it without worrying about his family seeing him.

Mickey walked in and held the door open for Ian to enter, then walked past him and turned on the small lamp beside the sofa.

“This is nice,” Ian said, looking around.

“Did you come here to check out the real estate or are we gonna fuck?” Mickey shot back impatiently.

Ian looked at him and grinned. “Mind if I use the bathroom first?”

Mickey pointed to the bathroom.

“Thanks,” Ian told him. “Beer goes right through me.”

While he waited for Ian to finish up, he rushed to his room and straightened up the bedspread. When he was done, he went back to the living room and fidgeted with the couch cushions until he realized what he was doing and forced himself to stop, because since when did Mickey care about what other people thought of his place?

He finally settled down, sitting on the arm of his couch. He was nervous as hell, but the kissing in the cab had loosened him up a bit. He rubbed at his semi-hard dick and readjusted it, the boxer briefs not really allowing it to go where it wanted to go. He was excited about tasting Ian again.

“This place is so clean,” Ian said when he walked out. “Do you have a cleaning service or something?”

Mickey shook his head. “Just moved in; don’t really have a lot of crap yet.”

“Oh yeah? Where were you living before?”

Mickey glared at him, not in the mood to be grilled by his hookup, but Ian didn’t stop with the twenty fucking questions. “Do you live alone? I’ve always wanted to live alone. I have five brothers and sisters. Do you have any siblings?”

“Jesus, would you shut the fuck up and get on me already?” Mickey huffed. It was obvious that Ian didn’t know he was asking all the wrong questions, but he was definitely killing Mickey’s happy little buzz.

“Sorry, it’s what I do when I’m nervous. My family teases me about it non-stop,” he explained.

So Ian was nervous too? Knowing that actually made Mickey feel a little better. He smirked, about to make a comment but Ian stepped forward so that he was standing between Mickey’s legs and leaned down to kiss him again, their lips drawn to each other like magnets. Fuck, if kissing Ian felt this good, he couldn’t wait to find out what fucking would feel like.

Ian pushed his crotch forward against Mickey’s as if in answer to his unasked question, and he could feel Ian’s dick already at attention. Ian rocked into him while they made out, reaching his arms around Mickey to grab at his ass where it met the sofa. Mickey moaned and licked at Ian’s lips in response to being manhandled by Ian’s big, eager hands.

Ian got a little too enthusiastic in his rutting and pushed against Mickey hard enough to make him lose his balance. Mickey fell back onto the couch, taking Ian down with him. Ian was heavier than Mickey expected; he felt the wind get knocked out of him.

Ian didn’t stop kissing him even after they fell back, his laughter coming against Mickey’s mouth in little huffs. Mickey turned his head away and muttered, “You’re crushing me, you giant!”

Ian rolled off of him and took the tiny break as an opportunity to remove his shirt. Mickey stared at his chest, surprised by how ripped he was. He hadn’t expected it at all based on the loose shirt Ian had been wearing. Ian grinned, catching Mickey checking him out. “Wanna join the party?” he asked, motioning to Mickey’s shirt.

Mickey shook his head while stifling his own grin and obliged, unbuttoning his shirt as quickly as he could, thankful for the few seconds he saved because he chose not to wear a tie. Ian opened his belt and let his jeans drop, swiftly pulled his boxers down as well, then proceeded to help Mickey out of his.

Mickey had to take a second to appreciate the wonder that was Ian’s cock. It was absolutely perfect. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to take it all, but he was definitely willing to find out. He licked his lips in anticipation.

“Turn towards me,” Ian instructed, and Mickey scooted backwards on the couch, swinging his legs around so that he was sitting like a normal person.

Ian got down onto his knees and put a hand around the base of Mickey's dick. He gave it a few good strokes and Mickey felt himself harden completely. Ian ran his other hand up Mickey's thigh and bent forward to lick at the head of his cock. He parted his lips and spread them around Mickey, taking him into his mouth. Mickey exhaled but it sounded more like a groan. He wasn't nearly as big as Ian, but he definitely wasn't anything to laugh at, which was evident when Ian could only make it about halfway down his cock before moving back up again. He kept his other hand wrapped around Mickey's shaft, stroking up and down in steady movements that matched his sucking.

 

Mickey hadn’t gotten a chance to ask anyone at the Company about heaven yet, but he suspected it felt something like this. Ian licked a fat stripe up the underside of Mickey's dick before coming up with a loud pop. His lips were red and puffy, and there was a bit of saliva in the corners of his mouth.

“Where do you keep your stuff?”

“My stuff?” Mickey asked, still distracted by the gigantic dick in front of him.

“Condoms, lube…”

Mickey’s face must have shown how terribly unprepared he was.

“It’s okay,” Ian told him. “I think I have some…” He bent and fished around in his pocket until he found what he was looking for: a condom and a small packet of lube. Ian opened the lube, drizzling some onto his fingers and rubbing them together to warm it up. Mickey watched, mesmerized, biting his lip in anticipation.

It had been so long since he’d done this, and even longer since he’d let anyone top him. He’d had to save face in Juvie and definitely couldn’t let people think he was anyone’s bitch. Honestly, if he wasn’t so buzzed, he would have been even more nervous, but Ian seemed to have enough confidence for both of them.

“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you’re good and prepped before I do anything,” he told Mickey, once again proving how in-tune with him he really was.

Ian pulled Mickey forward to the edge of the cushion and pressed the palm of his clean hand to Mickey’s chest, urging him lean back and rest against the back of the couch. He ran a slick finger over Mickey’s hole, like he was testing the waters. Mickey tensed at the touch, but then Ian took Mickey’s dick into his mouth again and he forgot about everything else, especially his nerves. Ian massaged his hole until the tight muscle there was more relaxed, then pressed one slippery finger inside.

Mickey grunted but Ian hollowed out his cheeks and sucked him down harder, drawing his attention away from the intrusion, making him focus on the blowjob. Mickey could feel his dick hitting the back of Ian's throat. He moved his hands and rested them on Ian, one on his freckled shoulder and the other on the back of his head, fingers gripping onto his hair.

Ian was apparently a multitasking master, and before Mickey knew it, he had already added another finger into the fold. He worked Mickey quickly and efficiently, spreading his fingers apart inside and pushing at the edges of Mickey's rim. Mickey let his head fall back, overwhelmed by all the different sensations.

When Ian pulled off again, Mickey practically whimpered at the loss of contact, kicking himself for being such a fucking pussy. Ian pulled Mickey forward and kissed him again, slipping in a third finger.

Mickey got over the kissing-the-mouth-that-was-on-his-dick thing pretty quickly because that was when Ian started rubbing his prostate and nothing really mattered after that. He knew that at one point, Ian stopped kissing and fingering him to stand up and put the condom on, adding whatever was left of the lube to his dick.

Ian picked him up ‒ actually fucking picked him up ‒ and turned him around on the couch so that he had space to kneel behind him, placing himself between Mickey’s legs. Ian grabbed a handful of Mickey’s ass, then spread his cheeks apart and lined himself up. There was silence as Ian slowly pushed his member into Mickey, who tightened his grip on the back of the sofa, followed by a groaned out exhale of breath.

Ian stopped before going in too deep, possibly to let Mickey adjust to the feel of his dick in him, but that wasn’t what Mickey needed.

“Move,” Mickey ordered, wanting more, craving it. “I'm not some little bitch who needs to be coddled,” he spat over his shoulder at Ian, even though it conflicted with everything else he had done up until that moment. Now that it was actually happening, all the fear from earlier was gone. He was so gone, he just needed Ian to _move_ already…

But Ian slid in deeper very slowly, and Mickey had a feeling he still wasn’t all the way in. He started thrusting gently, in and out, treating Mickey like he was made of glass.

“Fuck, c'mon…” Mickey groaned, reaching behind him for Ian’s hip with one hand while simultaneously pushing his ass back, forcing Ian all the way inside of him. He heard Ian moan and felt Ian’s strong hands grasp his hips firmly, holding him in place while pistoning into Mickey.

Ian gave it to him good and hard and Mickey fucking loved it. Nothing he’d ever done before even held a candle to how amazing being fucked by Ian felt, especially when Ian leaned forward and changed the angle of his thrusts so that he was rubbing against Mickey in just the right way to make him feel like he was going to unravel completely, ending things much sooner than he’d like them to.

“I’m not gonna last much longer,” Ian said, echoing Mickey’s thoughts. He let go of Mickey’s hip and reached around for his dick.

Ian rubbed at the precum leaking from the tip, tightened his grip around Mickey’s cock and pumped him until he exploded, bands of thick, milky cum landing on Mickey’s chest with a stuttered out “f-fuckkk” on Mickey’s part.

Ian returned his hand to Mickey’s hip and gripped him tight enough to leave a mark, but Mickey was so blissed out by his orgasm that he could hardly be bothered to care. With one final thrust, Ian sheathed himself in Mickey’s ass and held him still as he silently came inside of him.

He leaned forward against Mickey when he was done and Mickey could feel Ian’s legs trembling ever-so-slightly. The only sound in the room was both of them panting.

“That was fucking perfect,” Ian blurted out, pulling out and collapsing onto the couch beside Mickey. His whole body was covered in a shiny layer of sweat.

Mickey nodded, not having the strength to speak yet. He turned and sat on the couch beside Ian, but grimaced when he looked down at his chest and saw at the mess there. He needed a fucking shower, like, yesterday. Forcing himself to stand, he made his way over to the bathroom.

Ian followed him and Mickey watched him slip the condom off his softening dick and tie off the end, dropping it into the small garbage bin under the sink.

Mickey turned the water on, waited a minute for it to warm up and stepped in. Ian made to follow him in but Mickey stuck a hand out, pressing it against his chest and holding him back.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked.

“Joining you?”

Mickey shook his head. “This was a one-time thing,” Mickey said pointedly. “I’m sure you can let yourself out without my help.”

Ian frowned. “Can I at least get your number?”

“Don’t have a cell phone,” he said.

“Right,” Ian sighed. “I can take a hint.”

Mickey knew that Ian thought he was lying to him, because who the fuck didn’t have a cell phone, but Mickey didn’t care enough to prove to him that he wasn’t even lying. He’d gotten what he’d wanted, which was a good ‒ no, a fucking _fantastic_ fuck. It had taken his mind off of Mandy, off of the life he no longer had, and now he needed to get himself cleaned up.

He pulled the glass door of the shower shut and closed his eyes as the warm water ran over him. When he opened his eyes again, Ian was gone.


	5. Just a Fucking Coincidence

Mickey slept like a baby after his hookup with Ian. He couldn’t remember ever feeling so sated and calm, and his good mood lingered all weekend. As a result, he was very productive: he got his clothes dry cleaned, stocked up on beer, Poptarts and frozen dinners, and even threw the garbage into the dumpster, since the takeout containers had been threatening to overflow out of the bin in the kitchen.

He went to work on Monday and everything was business as usual. He picked up his list from Mr. Smith and proceeded to travel around his assigned district in Chicago to reap the souls of the eight people he was assigned.

Mickey stopped at the diner again for lunch. “This is becoming a pattern,” his waitress told him as she led him to his usual booth.

He gave her a wry smile. “The pie’s not half bad.”

“They named it Patsy’s Pies for a reason,” she said with a grin. “So, how was your weekend? Did you end up going to that new club?”

Mickey shrugged, keeping his face casual. “It was alright…”

She smiled like she knew something, but took his order without another word.

It had been three days since his hookup with Ian but Mickey could still feel the soreness from where Ian’s hands had gripped onto his hips while he thoroughly fucked him, where they should have left purple bruises in the shape of his long fingers all along Mickey’s body, but instead just made his new reaper body feel stiff.

He finished eating and went back to work. It was only his second week on the job, but Mickey was already noticing a pattern: more than fifty percent of all of his reapings were a result of heart disease or cancer. They were easy, almost routine. Odds were, the person was pretty stationary before it happened, making it a lot easier for Mickey. In fact, not even one out of ten of his reapings led to accidents, and even less to murder, but regardless of how the person ultimately passed away, Mickey caught on to the fact that it happened within a minute of him touching them with his ring.

Curiosity got the better of him, and he almost always waited around to see what would happen after the energy from his ring was released into the people he touched. He hadn’t meant to keep track of the causes of death, but it was his business now.

Even though he wanted to the memory of his own death behind him, he thought back to that day in the garage. He distinctly remembered that the asshole who had reaped him had bumped into him and his brother way before they had actually been killed. He didn’t understand why his death had taken so long to play out, and decided to ask Mr. Smith about it the following day.

* * *

Mickey stood in the solemn man’s office, chewing on his lip, folding Tuesday’s list in half again and again until it was crisp enough to easily be torn in two, not knowing how or where to start asking his boss about the inconsistency he’d picked up on.

“Did you need something, Mr. Miller?”

Mickey winced at the use of his new name. He stopped biting his lip and swallowed. “I have a question…”

“About something in particular?” Mr. Smith asked, pressing him to continue.

“Yeah... So, when you took me out for the second part of my training, I touched that little girl, Alexa Majors, with my ring and she died like thirty seconds later.” He looked at Mr. Smith but the man just rolled his hand with a small wave, indicating that Mickey should continue.

“Well, I’ve noticed that it’s the same with all of them. I touch them with the ring, and whatever’s gonna happen pretty much happens right away.”

“Your question?”

Mickey sighed, annoyed that he had to spell it all out. “Why didn’t mine happen like that? Were we not supposed to die or something?” It was a long shot, but Mickey couldn’t help but hope that something had gone wrong with him and Colin. That it had all been a mistake, somehow. That maybe, just maybe, if it was a mistake, then he could fix that mistake.

Mr. Smith pursed his lips, smiling like he had been waiting for this. Mickey felt irritated with the old man for keeping yet another thing from him. He didn’t like learning things by going through them himself, like he was being tested again to see how long it would take him to figure out whatever it was he was supposed to pick up on on his own. He would have much preferred having all the rules laid out for him from the get-go.

“I’m sure you’ve noticed that one of the perks of being a reaper is that you can go unnoticed when the need arises…”

Mickey rolled his eyes, all too aware of that fact. He knew he wasn’t invisible, but something about being a reaper just made people not want to interact with him more than necessary, unless of course he needed them to.

“What would you have done if a stranger had stood beside you during that shootout?”

Mickey furrowed his brow. “I would have shot the fucker.”

“Precisely.”

“But he wouldn’t have gotten hurt,” Mickey argued. “So?”

“So, what would you have done if you shot your reaper and he walked away unscathed?” He didn’t wait for Mickey to answer. “People don’t see their reapers. _You_ saw your reaper because _you_ were destined to become a reaper too. The delay was there for a reason. Without it, your reaper would have had to be in the garage beside you at the moment leading to your death, and you would have reacted to him. Your actions would have been influenced by his presence, thus affecting the outcome.”

Mickey thought about what Mr. Smith told him, playing out what could have happened in his head. He realized that it made sense. If some guy had been there, in such close proximity to them when everything went down, and if Mickey could have seen what happened when he touched Colin, things would have been very different. Everyone would have thought he was an absolute lunatic if he shot someone who wasn’t really there then tried to make them see that said mystery immortal was walking around unharmed.

“Okay,” he said, accepting the new information, filing it away as yet another thing about his new life that he had to get used to. “One more thing. So my soul or aura or whatever… it never left my body?” he asked.

Mr. Smith tilted his head forward in a single nod to Mickey.

Mickey rubbed at his lip with the back of his thumb, digesting what he had learned.

“You should get started on that,” Mr. Smith told him regarding the list, a polite dismissal.

* * *

Mickey had a busy day ahead of him, and didn’t get a chance to stop at the diner until later afternoon. His usual waitress wasn’t there when he walked in, and the lady who seated him was beyond annoying. She asked him nosy question after question and suggested that he eat a salad instead of the burger he wanted, since young boys like him needed to eat well.

He couldn’t wait to get out of there, and if he caught himself smiling while idly wondering how she would bite the bullet one day, he didn’t even feel bad about it, especially not after she scowled at him for ordering a slice of apple pie.

“Where’s the other waitress?” he asked the manager behind the counter when he was paying. “The brunette?” He was the same guy Mickey had noticed his usual waitress flirting with that first time.

“Oh, Fiona? She had some family stuff come up, but don’t worry, everything’s fine,” the guy assured him. Mickey left his opinionated waitress a minimal tip to match her shitty service and made a mental note to look through the glass and make sure Fiona was working before going in next time.

* * *

Mickey had three more people on his list before he could go home for the day, but luckily they were all on various floors of the same hospital: Lydia Lewis died of lung cancer, Michael Clark succumbed to kidney failure, and Marcel Hernandez died of plain and simple cardiac arrest during a routine surgery.

He got home and had just enough energy to heat up some hot pockets in the microwave before vegging out on the couch in front of the TV. One of the things he loved about his apartment was that it came with a decently sized flat screen and cable already set up. He found a Law & Order marathon and reclined with his head propped up on the couch’s arm.

It was embarrassing, but Mickey smiled every time he looked at the couch, remembering the ridiculous drunken sex he and Ian had had on it. It was a good thing no one was there to see him smiling.

* * *

On Wednesday, his work took Mickey to the mall across from the Company’s office right around lunch time. He took it as an opportunity to eat at the food court, buy some pajamas, and he also went into the Verizon store while he was there. It wasn’t like he had anyone to call exactly, but after years of settling for shitty flip-phone burners or whatever crap he was able to steal and use before whoever he took the phone from cancelled their plan, he was happy to be able to buy a phone of his own.

He hated the idea of spending money on an iPhone. If anyone had asked him what he thought of the overpriced hipster garbage a month ago, he would have spat on them. Maybe worse. But he was able to afford it now, so he did. He only wanted a phone for internet, but he got the most expensive plan with an unlimited data package, just because he could.

When he got home, he downloaded a bunch of apps like Angry Birds, Bejeweled, Candy Crush, and other stupid shit that would help him pass the time in between reapings. He decided to give Words with Friends a shot and was instantly hooked. He started a few games against random people online and realized he was pretty fucking good at it. Mickey had always been really good at board games, even though he rarely got a chance to play them once he was over the age of five.

People assumed that because he didn’t finish high school, Mickey was some kind of idiot, just the neighborhood thug. He smirked at how wrong they were as he submitted his 133-point word, making “jar” across and “juked” down, with the J on a triple letter tile and the E on the triple word tile. He stayed up late playing on his phone like he was a kid again.

* * *

On Thursday morning, Mickey picked up his list and glanced over it. One of the names in the middle was Amanda Mitchell and he swallowed hard when he saw it. His eyes were playing tricks on him, but the similarity to his sister’s name made him start thinking about her again. He could still hear the strangled sob Mandy had made outside by the garbage can when he’d been watching her that night, replaying over and over again in his mind.

Mickey knew he couldn’t talk to her. He knew the rules, contact wasn’t allowed, and he’d seen  firsthand what would happen if he approached her… but that didn’t mean he couldn’t _see_ her. Deep down he knew that he was being stupid. This was the same rationale he’d used last time when he’d gone to his old house, “just to make sure she was okay”, but he still convinced himself that he could be stronger this time.

Instead of going to the house, Mickey decided to try to catch Mandy at school. At least that way, there would be witnesses, so she couldn’t try to murder him or anything if she saw him, even though he hoped that it wouldn’t come to that… The last time, he’d forgotten that his being a reaper would keep her from noticing him. It had been a mistake that he’d only realized later on. This time, he thought he knew better; he was only going there to observe.

He got to the community college campus when he finished work for the day and walked around aimlessly for a while. He still roughly remembered Mandy’s schedule ‒ he had only died two weeks ago, after all ‒ and knew that she had a Lit class around this time on Tuesdays and Thursdays, so he asked a random student where the English classes were usually given and kind of just hung around outside, on the opposite side of the quad, until he spotted her near the right building.

Mandy was distracted, too busy animatedly talking to her friends to notice him, even if she _could_ notice him. On the plus side, she didn’t look sad. She had books in her arms and a backpack slung over one shoulder. She checked her watch and must have seen she was going to be late because she smiled and gave a hug to one of the people in the group she was talking to and rushed into the building.

The guy she’d hugged turned around and also left the rest of the group, and Mickey froze when he realized he recognized him. It was Ian, but he hadn’t been able to see his face before and his hoodie had hidden the tell-tale hair. Mickey turned away as soon as he figured out who it was, but Ian must have spotted him.

“Mickey!” he called, rushing across the quad.

It was too fucking late for him to pretend he hadn’t heard Ian, and the fucker had such long, lanky legs that he had crossed the space between them in half the time it would have taken a normal person to. Running was not an option.

He briefly wondered how the hell Ian had even seen him, but reasoned that, since he had already met him, maybe the magic of it was gone. Mickey swallowed hard, turned around and greeted Ian with an exaggerated smile. “Hey.”

“Nice suit,” Ian said, eyeing Mickey up and down.

Mickey bit his lip and averted his gaze, feeling uncomfortable under Ian’s scrutiny.

“What are you doing here? I thought you didn’t wanna see me again…” he said, voice sounding like he was close to tears.

“I- what? No,” Mickey sputtered. “I’m not here to see y-”

“Relax, Mickey. I’m just fucking with you,” Ian said, clapping a hand to Mickey’s forearm and flashing him a grin. “You’re too easy,” he teased.

Mickey scowled. He didn’t think it was funny.

“I don’t have another class until later tonight. Wanna come to the Ratskeller with me? I’ll pay for drinks this time,” he offered, holding up a little white card. Mickey saw his picture on it, next to the name “Ian Gallagher” and figured it was his meal card.

“They sell alcohol on campus?” he asked.

“Yup. Isn’t it amazing what student loans can cover?” he said with a grin, leading Mickey to the Student Center. “I’ll probably end up paying twenty bucks for each drink after interest and shit, but I’d like to remain blissfully ignorant about that for as long as I can,” he added.

The bar was in the basement of the Student Center. They had a bunch of local brews and homemade snacks for sale. It gave off a low-key, Starbucks-y vibe, with soft, warm lighting, mismatched armchairs in groups in the middle, and booths all along the edges. Ian got two beers and small bag of chocolate covered pretzels. They found a table in a relatively quiet corner and sat down.

“So, uh,” Mickey began, “what are you studying here?” he asked, attempting to make some small talk. He took a tentative sip of the pumpkin flavored beer Ian had gotten and decided it wasn’t the worst thing he’d ever tried.

Ian opened the bag of snacks and popped one into his mouth. “Not sure yet,” he admitted. “Right now I’m just taking a bunch of core classes until I figure that out.”

Mickey nodded. He completely understood what it meant to not know what you wanted to do for the rest of your life, even though he hadn’t had much of a choice in the matter, in this life or the previous one. His dad had just expected him to continue in his crooked footsteps, all pun intended, and now he’d been given a new career that he never asked for.

“But hey, at least I’m doing it, right? I’d probably be flipping burgers or cleaning up after people if not for this. Or at least, that’s what my sister keeps telling me. I dunno. She’s probably right… Anyway, enough about my undecided ass. What about you?”

“Me?”

“Yeah, what do you do for a living?” he wondered, taking another swallow of his drink.

Mickey stayed silent, not sure how to answer him.

“Oh man, you’re gonna make me guess?” Ian said, eyes lighting up, mistaking Mickey’s silence for some kind of game. “Okay, I can do this.”

He studied Mickey for a long minute.

“Stock broker?”

Mickey barked out a laugh, then shook his head. “No fucking way anyone would ever let me handle their money.”

Ian frowned, clearly disappointed in himself for his bad guess.

“Security?” he asked, waiting expectantly for confirmation.

“Nope.”

“Really? But the suit and the sunglasses…”

Mickey put his drink down and opened his jacket, showing the inside of it to Ian. “You see any weapons?”

Without warning, Ian reached a hand out and patted at Mickey’s sides, even stretching out of his seat to reach around Mickey’s waistband to check for a hidden piece. Mickey stared at him, eyebrows rising, surprised by not only the casual way Ian touched him, but also at how efficiently he frisked him for weapons.

“I live in a dangerous neighborhood,” Ian explained, catching on to Mickey’s stunned expression. He pulled Mickey’s new iPhone out of his pocket and opened it. “You should really add a password to this, Mr. ‘Don’t-Have-a-Cellphone’,” he mocked.

“I don’t. I mean, it’s new. I swear,” Mickey said, but it was pointless. Ian was in his phone, doing whatever the fuck he was doing, and all Mickey could do was kick himself for being too lazy to set up the whole fingerprint unlock thing the day before.

“I know you said it was a one-time thing,” Ian said, looking at Mickey over the top of the cellphone as he typed something, “but you can’t deny that this was one hell of a fucking coincidence.” Ian passed Mickey back the phone. “I have to get to my next class, but my number’s in there,” he said, tapping the phone. “Call me if you wanna fuck again.”

Ian grinned an evil fucking smile as he got up. He took what was left of his snack and stored it away in his backpack, then walked away, leaving Mickey at the table with their unfinished drinks, his mouth only _slightly_ hanging open.

* * *

Mickey went home fully intent on pretending Ian’s number didn’t exist. He refused to open his Contacts, refused to call or text or do _anything_ that would lead to them hooking up again.

Ian was trouble. He had asked too many questions. He’d wanted to know what Mickey did for a living, and he couldn’t exactly tell him he was a grim fucking reaper. But, most importantly, Ian knew Mandy, and Mickey couldn’t take that risk.

As such, he acted like what had happened at the college hadn’t happened at all. He pretended it was just another Thursday night. He told himself he did _not_ want to get fucked so hard that his ass felt sore for the next five days.

It wasn’t working.

He decided to take a shower to get his mind off of it, but no matter how many times he told himself that he didn’t want to call Ian, his dick clearly had a different plan. Mickey knew that if he didn’t deal with his horniness, it would become a problem, so he reached down and wrapped his hand around himself as the water fell down around him.

He imagined what it would have been like if he hadn’t kicked Ian out after they’d hooked up ‒ if he had allowed Ian to follow him into the shower instead. Mickey stroked himself while thinking about Ian pressing him up against the cold tiles, pulling his head back and kissing him under the hot water, tongues fighting while Ian mercilessly pistoned into him.

 

Mickey remembered how full he had felt with Ian inside of him and he craved that again. He reached a hand back and carefully pressed a finger into himself. Water wasn’t the best lube in the world, but he sure as hell wasn’t about to stick shower gel up his ass, so it would have to do.

 

He timed his movements so that he thrust into his hand and then pushed back onto his finger in a repetitive, smooth movement. One finger wasn’t enough, didn’t even compare to Ian’s dick, so he added a second one, and soon after, a third. He pumped his dick harder, flicking his wrist when he reached the head on each upward stroke.

His orgasm hit him quickly, and Mickey leaned his forehead against the tiles as he came, breathing hard. He angled the showerhead so that it washed away his cum, evidence of his weakness when it came to forgetting about Ian sliding down the wall and circling the drain.

* * *

Mickey was actually looking forward to going to work on Friday. He welcomed the distraction, and wasn’t even annoyed when his list had fourteen names on it, his most hectic day yet.

He had a quick lunch at the diner and made casual conversation with Fiona. It turned out her little brother had gotten sick and had needed to be picked up early from daycare, and no one else had been able to go get him, let alone stay with him at home for the rest of the day.

“Just how many siblings do you have?” he asked her.

She laughed and shook her head. “You don’t even know the half of it… At least I’ll never be lonely,” Fiona joked. She topped off his coffee and brought him a slice of peach cobbler on the house despite his insistence that he had to get going. The dessert was good enough for him to forgive her for inadvertently making him think about his own siblings and how he wasn’t able to see them anymore.

It was a rough afternoon, and he had to dash back and forth through his designated section of town more than he would have liked to. Mickey was so beat when he got home that evening that he went straight to bed after dinner.

* * *

The only problem with sleeping so early was that he woke up at the fucking ass-crack of dawn on Saturday morning, with no plans and absolutely nothing to do. So of course he busied himself with doing errands like dry cleaning and buying groceries, a necessary part of his new life, but there was only so much time he could waste around the house before giving up.

He was kind of proud that he made it through Saturday without calling Ian, but on Sunday morning, he concluded that his other options were limited: he could either stay at home and waste the rest of his weekend away, go out and do something like see a movie to pass the time, which really didn’t seem appealing to him given the fact that he’d have to do it alone, or he could go back to Boystown and try to meet someone new. Of course the last one was stupid. Why would he go through the effort of finding a random guy to hook up with all over again when he already had someone willing and, quite frankly, _more_ than able waiting for him, just one phone call away?

Mickey felt like a bootycall to Ian was inevitable. He got his new phone from where it was charging beside his bed and looked through the apps until he found the one for his Contacts. He opened it up and saw that there were only three numbers stored in it: his own contact card, the car service that he’d used a few times when he hadn’t been able to find any taxi cabs around, and Ian’s.

He stared at the name for a few minutes before he started calling. He held his breath, fighting the urge to hang up. It rang twice before Ian answered.

“Hello?”

“Hi,” Mickey said, pushing through his nervousness. “Uh, it’s Mick-”

“Mickey!” he heard Ian’s voice say enthusiastically from the other end of the line, echoing his own. “What took you so long?”

He swallowed, trying to think of an answer that would satisfy Ian. He wanted to tell him to go fuck himself but thought that offending Ian right of the bat probably wasn’t the best way to get him to come over.

“That was a rhetorical question,” Ian said, pulling him out of his head and back into the conversation.

“You busy?” Mickey asked, getting right down to it, though he never pretended to be tactful.

Ian was quiet for a minute and Mickey started to worry that maybe he had fucked up by taking too long to call him.

“I’m about to have lunch, but I can probably come by later this afternoon. Is that cool?”

Mickey nodded, then realized he was on the phone and rolled his eyes at himself for being a fucking idiot. “Yeah, sounds good.”

“Okay. Just text me your address again.”

“‘Kay,” Mickey muttered, the ending the call when he heard Ian hang up.

* * *

Mickey decided to go out for lunch. He stopped at a deli and picked up a hero, then made a pit stop at the pharmacy to get condoms and lube, thinking it was kind of a good thing that Ian hadn’t been able to come over right away.

The acne-faced teen at the register gave him a look as he rang Mickey up. His automatic response was to scowl and crack his knuckles, drawing attention to the threat inked on his fingers, but he must not have looked as intimidating with his Average-Joe looks and lack of tattoos, especially not in his stupid suit.

He ate his sandwich at the small table he had in the kitchen area, not really wanting to make a mess in the living room in case they didn’t make it to the bedroom again. He sent a text to Ian with his address before getting into the shower.

* * *

Mickey was just finishing up when he heard the doorbell ring. He wrapped a towel around his waist and went to open the front door.

“Finally,” Ian said in greeting. He stared at Mickey’s wet body with a gigantic, dirty grin. Mickey stepped aside to let him in.

“I’m glad you called,” Ian told him, once he was standing inside the apartment.

Mickey closed the door and turned around to find Ian already taking his shirt off.

“So where’s the bedroom?” he asked.

Mickey licked his lips and tilted his head toward the only other room Ian hadn’t been to.

“Well, come on,” Ian told him, grabbing the towel and running out of reach before a naked Mickey could kick him.

“Fucker,” he spat, rushing after Ian, practically tackling him into the mattress. They wrestled until Mickey was able to pin Ian down. As if he was rewarding him for his victory, Ian stretched his neck up and gave Mickey a brutal kiss, teeth biting and tongue licking at his lips. Before Mickey knew what was happening, Ian had flipped him over and was holding Mickey’s arms above his head, trapping Mickey underneath him as he laid his long, warm body against Mickey’s pale, wet one.

Mickey wasn’t even sure how long they’d been lying there, making out, but he was disappointed as all hell when Ian pulled away and sat back on his heels.

“I can’t exactly fuck you if I still have my pants on,” Ian explained, opening his belt.

“Hurry,” Mickey grunted. He hated that he sounded so needy, but he really liked kissing Ian.

“I’m going as fast as I can,” Ian told him, unzipping his jeans. “Did you get condoms this time?”

Mickey nodded and turned to his side, stretching to reach the condoms that he’d left in the drawer of the bedside table. He grabbed the entire box and tossed it to Ian.

“Don’t you think you’re being a little optimistic here?” Ian asked, waving the box.

“Shut the fuck up,” Mickey said with a laugh, sitting up and taking the box back from Ian. He dug inside it and pulled out a strip, then tore one of the squares off. By then, Ian had completely undressed. He was waiting on his knees at the end of the bed, erection sticking out like a flag. Mickey opened the wrapper and took the condom out, checked to make sure he had it right side up, then slowly rolled it down Ian’s dick.

“Lube?” Ian asked.

“They’re lubricated,” Mickey told him, nodding to the condom.

“But-”

“Trust me, you won’t need more than that,” he said. Ian cocked his head to the side, but apparently understood what Mickey was telling him when he watched him turn around and spread his legs. Mickey was glad his face was hidden when he presented his already-prepped ass to Ian, relieved that he didn’t have to see Ian’s reaction.

“Is that what you were doing in the shower? I was ringing the bell for like ten minutes,” Ian complained.

Mickey flashed him an annoyed expression over his shoulder. A second later, Ian was laughing and grabbing his ass in his big hands. “Your ass is so fucking perfect,” he told him, kneading his cheeks with his palms.

And yeah, Mickey wanted to tell him to shut up, but Ian pushed his long, thick, perfect fucking cock into him the minute he opened his mouth and Mickey couldn’t even remember who or where he was, let alone what he’d been about to say.

Ian continued squeezing Mickey’s ass, using it as leverage when he rocked even deeper, until he was completely seated inside. Mickey shivered as Ian gently slid his hands up his back, feeling him all over while he waited for Mickey to relax around him.

“Your skin is so soft,” Ian said, sliding his hands back down to the spot on Mickey’s waist where he’d left bruises the last time. Mickey moaned something incoherent while he shoved his ass back and forced Ian to start moving.

Ian drew his dick almost completely out and shoved it back in, hips slamming against Mickey’s cheeks. “Oh yeah, that feels so good. You feel so good,” he groaned.

“Can you stop fucking talking and just _fuck_ me,” Mickey grunted, finally annoyed enough to say something. It wasn’t that he didn’t like what Ian was saying; he just wasn’t use to being complimented, and it was making him uncomfortable.

Ian made a little huff, but complied with Mickey’s request. He dug his fingers into Mickey’s side and dragged Mickey’s body back and forth as he endlessly plowed into him.

Mickey closed his eyes. He thought about when he’d jerked off in the shower while imaging being with Ian and bit his lip as he realized that nothing was ever going to satisfy him the way Ian did. The feeling of being so thoroughly fucked wasn’t something he’d be able to find a substitute for.

All of a sudden he felt himself being moved. He opened his eyes as Ian turned him over, moving them so that they were facing each other. He stopped for a second, leaned forward to grab one of Mickey’s pillows, and placed it under Mickey’s ass, using it to prop him up a couple of inches.

Ian picked up Mickey’s legs and hooked them over his arms, and Mickey cursed when Ian resumed his thrusting, the change in the angle making each forward movement feel better than the last, better than he ever expected. Mickey knew he was close, thought he was going to cum without even being touched, so he reached for his own dick and started stroking himself.

Ian wrapped his fingers around Mickey’s. “I’ll do it,” he told him, panting with the effort of fucking him so roughly, so vigorously. Mickey shook his head and refused to let go, so they ended up simultaneously moving their hands up and down around Mickey’s dick. It was probably the fucking _hottest_ thing Mickey’d ever experienced, and he came after only a minute of the tandem jerking off.

Ian let go of Mickey’s sensitive cock after he came and went back to holding Mickey’s legs up, using them as leverage to thrust deeper into him. “I’m almost there,” he grunted, even though Mickey was too lost to care. He felt the beat of Ian’s thrusts stutter and then Ian stopped moving altogether, holding Mickey still as he came.

Ian held the base of the condom when he pulled out, sitting back on his heels with his arms resting on his thighs. He closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths, then reached for his pants on the floor and grabbed a smoke from his pocket. He looked at Mickey, checking to see if it was okay to do it inside his apartment. Mickey gave him a small nod.

Mickey watched Ian suck in his cheeks as he took in the nicotine from the small, white stick. Curious, he grabbed the cigarette out of Ian’s hand, batted Ian away when he tried to grab it back, and took a deep drag.

He felt… nothing. No relief, no familiar and comforting taste, no relaxation or light-headedness. He felt like he’d been scammed, and he was more than annoyed with the Company for taking away one of the things that had made him who he was, even if it had been just one of his many vices.

He held it out for Ian to take back. “Time to get going, Gallagher,” he said, deliberately using Ian’s last name for the first time. Mickey reached for his towel and wiped at the spunk on his chest.

“What’s the rush? Let me catch my breath for a few minutes and maybe we can go again. That is, if you’re up for it,” he teased, smacking Mickey on his thigh.

Mickey laughed, smiling even though he was shaking his head. “Nah man, I've got work in the morning.”

“Oh, work, huh? And what is it you do again?”

“That’s none of your fucking business,” Mickey muttered, raising his eyebrows as threateningly as he could.

Ian laughed again. “Are you in the mob or something? Is that why you won't tell me?”

Mickey grimaced, but forced himself to relax his face. Ian had no idea that what he was accusing Mickey of being part of in jest was coincidentally the very group that killed him.

He got up off the bed and walked to the bathroom to clean himself up better, closing the door behind him before Ian could follow like a little puppy.

Maybe he'd give him a call in a couple of days, when he got too horny again. Or not.


	6. Normal is a Relative Term

With the weekend over, Mickey went back to work and picked up his list, but was stopped by Mr. Smith.

“Hold on a second, Mr. Miller,” he said. “There’s going to be a Company get-together tomorrow. You’ll have a half day of work, and we will all meet at the park for lunch.”

“A get-together?” Mickey asked incredulously.

Mr. Smith slid another piece of paper to Mickey with a time and an address on it. “The Head Office insists we do this type of gathering on the last day of every month,” he explained. “We’ll have a meal, chit-chat… Think of it as an opportunity to get to know your fellow reapers. Everyone from the Greater Chicago area will be there.”

“So it’s mandatory?” he asked, raising his eyebrows while he waited for his boss to answer him.

“Yes.”

“Okay,” Mickey said. He took his list and put it into his pocket, along with the location of the meeting the following day.

* * *

His list on Monday was short. Mickey stopped at a Starbucks to kill some time after lunch. He got a cup of coffee and found a seat in the corner where he could just chill and play games on his phone. He was in the middle of a particularly good game of Bejeweled when a message from Ian popped up, interrupting it.

_so about that box of condoms... if we’re gonna use them all, we should probably get started._

Mickey grinned at the message. Gallagher was a persistent motherfucker, and Mickey found his confidence to be a turn-on. He hit the reply button but sat there staring at the flashing cursor for at least a minute before locking the screen without replying.  

However funny he thought Ian was, he wasn’t about to start texting the guy he’d thrown out the night before. He drained what was left of his coffee and headed to his next stop: Sam McDonald, 17 North Dearborn, 2:25 p.m.

Mr. McDonald worked in the library at Adler University. He was busy stacking some law books in the far corner of the library. Mickey’s ring led him through the maze of stacks until he found him, and when he touched his ring to the man’s forearm, Mr. McDonald had a seizure. Despite the silence in the library, no one heard his suffering. No one called for help. Mickey waited until the man’s aura dissipated into the air before leaving.

He didn’t have anywhere else to be until 4:13 p.m. It was hard work to not give in and reply to Ian’s message. He played a few rounds of Words with Friends to keep busy, but his day was so slow that by the end of it, he was itching to reply.

He toughed it out until he got home that night. Truth be told, Mickey had no willpower, and pretending he did was just ridiculous.

_what makes you think i can’t find someone else to use them with, hotshot?_

He read over the message and sent it. The whole texting thing was so new to him. It kind of felt like flirting, but with less pressure.

Ian’s reply was instantaneous.

_hey, you can do whatever you want. i’m just letting you know i’m ready to fuck whenever you are..._

Mickey smirked. He liked the idea of having a bootycall waiting for him, willing to come over if and when he wanted him to.

_for example, if you wanted me to come over tonight and fuck you into the mattress, i’d be down for that._

_just sayin._

The messages came consecutively and Mickey even laughed at the last one.

_i’ve got work in the morning. kind of an important day._

It wasn’t even a lie. He was wholeheartedly dreading going to the get-together and being forced to socialize with the other reapers.

_oh yeah, the mystery job. i’ve figured it out: secret agent._

_are you 007, mickey? am i trying to schleep with a schpy?_

Mickey shook his head at Ian’s terrible attempt at a Sean Connery impression, but was still smiling as he typed out his reply.

_that was so bad, man. you need to go sit in a corner and think about how terrible it was._

_and i’m not a fucking secret agent. thought i already proved that i wasn’t carrying._

Ian was quick to reply again:

_that doesn’t mean anything. a secret agent wouldn’t need a gun. you could have a particular set of skills… you know, like liam neeson._

Mickey decided that arguing with Ian would only lead to him trying even harder to guess what he did for a living, so he let it go. He noticed the time and realized he had to get going. He regretfully sent Ian a message saying so.

_it’s late and i have to shower. bye._

He had already turned the water on when he got another reply.

_i want to shower with you next time. will you think about that when you’re washing yourself tonight? think of me kissing your neck, running my soapy hands all over you, grabbing that perfect ass of yours, pressing you up against the tiles... think of me fucking you so hard that your body shivers even with the hot water._

Mickey was so turned on by Ian’s last message that he followed the directions to the tee. It wasn’t his first time jerking off while imaging what Ian would do to him if they were in the shower together, and he had a feeling it wouldn’t be the last.

* * *

Mickey didn’t send any more messages to Ian. Even if he had wanted to, which he didn’t, he had no idea what to say. “Hey, thanks for that image last night. It really helped me spank one out,” just didn’t seem right.

He got up the next morning feeling relaxed as ever, and even with the awkwardness of a Company function looming over him, got dressed and went to work with a smile. He finished with his shortened list for the day and made his way over to the address Mr. Smith had given him.

The Company get-together was kind of like a picnic, if picnics were catered and if picnic-goers typically wore suits. Honestly, the number of Men in Black jokes Mickey was saving up was getting out of hand.

Mickey walked up to the mob of huddled, sunglass-wearing reapers. He had only met Mr. Smith and Mrs. Davis since he’d joined the Company, so he didn’t really know where to go or who to mingle with. Lucky for him, Mr. Smith was standing near the entrance, apparently waiting for him.

“Mr. Miller, glad you decided to join us.”

“Thought it was mandatory,” Mickey told him.

“It is, but you still made the decision to show up.” He guided Mickey to center of their gathering, where waiters were walking around with trays of hors d'oeuvres.

Mr. Smith showed him where the bar was. “Get yourself a drink and mingle. When you feel like it, of course,” he instructed. “I’ll be there if you need me,” he added, pointing over to a group of reapers talking underneath an oak tree. He uncharacteristically patted Mickey on the shoulder before going.

Left there by himself, Mickey had nothing else to do but to go get a drink. For once, he ordered something stronger than a beer. He was looking for a better place to go stand and drink his Jack and coke when he overheard the next person at the bar.

“They really just throw you into it, don’t they?” the guy said with a nervous laugh. “This is my first Company function,” he told the bartender, who was completely uninterested in what the guy had to say.

Mickey turned around to look at him. The guy was tall and blond, but Mickey had never seen him before. “You’re new?”

“Yeah,” the guy said, taking his drink. “This is so surreal, isn’t it?”

“I’m new too,” he told him, not really answering the question.

“Oh yeah? How long?”

“This is my third week,” Mickey confessed.

“Dude, it’s just the start of my second. I’m Eric...” He furrowed his brow like he was trying to remember something. “Hicks!” he finally said triumphantly. “They told me I’m supposed to go by ‘Mr. Hicks’ now.” He thanked the bartender a bit too enthusiastically considering the fact that the guy wasn’t even being that social to him, and walked over to where Mickey was standing.

Eric had his hair buzzed short on the sides but the top was much longer, which went well with the rugged beard he was sporting. Mickey could objectively say that the guy was attractive, even though he was no Ian Gallagher. He quickly berated himself for even making the comparison, and introduced himself.

“I’m Mickey.”

Eric stuck his hand out and waited for Mickey to shake it. When Mickey didn’t move, he slowly let it drop, not letting the offense dampen his good spirits. “So,” he began, lowering his voice conspiratorially to make sure none of the waiters around them could hear. “How did you die, Mickey?”

“Shootout,” Mickey said simply, not really wanting to go into the details.

“That’s badass,” he said, genuinely impressed. “I was in a car accident. My wife and I were hit by some teenaged drunk driver,” he elaborated, and Mickey could tell from the bitterness in his voice that the guy’s wife hadn’t made it. He knew better than to ask a follow-up question, except that Eric went on all by himself.

“The fucker only got _probation._ Can you believe that? He killed two people and just because his daddy is some politician, he got off with barely anything. If they hadn’t come after me, I would have-”

“Who came after you?” Mickey interrupted.

“What do you mean?” Eric asked him.

“You said if they hadn’t come after you… Who’re ‘they’? The Company?”

Eric looked at him like he was crazy. “What? No, man. Everyone. Everyone around my murderer. Didn’t they attack you when you went after whoever shot you?” he asked.

“I didn’t go after my killer...”

“You didn’t try to get revenge?”

Mickey shook his head. “I tried to talk to my sister a week later, to see if she was okay,” he offered.

“A week later… Wait a second,” Eric said. “Are you _Mr._ _Miller_?”

Mickey nodded, brows furrowed, not understanding why there was shock in Eric’s eyes.

“Oh shit... Guys!” Eric called over to another group of reapers. He waved them over when they saw him. “This is Miller,” he said once a few of the guys had joined them.

There were a lot of surprised expressions and staring before one of the new reapers spoke. “Bro, everyone at the Company was talking about how you waited almost a week before trying to make contact.”

Mickey worried his lip, not liking all the extra attention, and particularly not liking being called ‘bro’. “What, is that bad?”

“Bad?” They all laughed.

“It was like some kind of record,” an Asian reaper said. “The managers wouldn’t stop talking about it.”

“Shit, I can’t believe you waited a whole week and didn’t even go for revenge,” Eric repeated.

Mickey didn’t see what the big deal was. He had died. It was done. He didn’t give a shit about revenge, hadn’t given it any thought, because he felt like his death had been warranted. They’d gone there and tried to fuck Jakov over, and the Russian had only defended himself and his product. If anything, Terry was the one to blame. They wouldn’t have been in that situation if not for their dad. Colin’s life certainly wouldn’t have ended so horribly if their dad hadn’t fucked them all over the way he had.

“So it’s like some kind of failsafe?” Mickey tried to clarify. “You go for revenge and they attack you first?”

“Exactly,” Eric confirmed.

“You either risk exposure or you run. Haven’t heard of anyone not running…” another blond reaper told him.

Mickey thought about it while the others continued talking. If his death had been Terry’s fault... if his dad had been the one to blame, the reason he and Colin had died… it made sense that the violence level had been turned up when he got into proximity of him.

When he tuned back into the conversation, the Asian one was in the middle of talking.

“I died of a brain aneurism. One second I was fine and the next I was waking up naked in the morgue in front of Mrs. Gold,” he said, pointing at one of the other reapers in the group Mr. Smith was talking to.

“I’m Eddie, by the way,” he said to Mickey. “Mr. Nang to the rest of the world. At least they kept me Filipino, right?”

The blond one was next to introduce himself as Jerry, or Mr. Lance. “I don’t have any crazy story about my death,” he said. “It was just early heart failure. Pretty ordinary.”

The others nodded, like it was so fucking normal to be talking about dying of heart failure. So normal for them all to be sharing the stories of _how they had died_. Mickey inwardly rolled his eyes at how fucked up the whole conversation was, but played nice on the outside and listened as the last reaper in their group, one of the few female reapers he could see, introduced herself as Christina Cole and told them that her brother had poisoned her in order to inherit their grandfather’s fortune. Talk about needing revenge...

Mickey spent the next hour listening to the other reapers talk while he accepted every appetizer that was offered to him except the stuffed mushrooms. He couldn’t for the life of him understand how anyone would ever willingly put a fungus into their mouth.

The conversation eventually turned to his coworkers sharing stories about their most exciting reapings.

“I once had a reaping at a frat party,” Eddie told them. “So basically, one of the idiots was so drunk that he mixed bleach into their punch instead of vodka. Bleach! Anyway, thirty-five of them died that night, vomiting their guts out. You probably saw it on the news a couple of years ago. The police thought they’d been poisoned by a rival frat, but their investigation was inconclusive.”

Mickey actually remembered hearing about that… remembered how Iggy and Colin had joked about it probably being some jealous sorority chick who’d done it.

“How ‘bout you, Hicks?” Christina asked, looking at the newbie. “Craziest reaping?”

“They have me in the South Side, so it’s mainly overdoses and shootings…” Eric said, cringing. Mickey could vouch for the truth in that, having grown up there. “Some hooker killed her pimp on Wednesday. That was interesting to watch,” he told them.

“Miller? What’s been your worst one so far?” the blond one, Jerry, asked.

He thought about it for a moment before answering. He hadn’t had any wild reapings yet. They’d all been relatively routine.

“I had a suicide on my first day,” he told them. “Guy jumped in front of the L before I got to him and he got shred up by the train. I walked away without a scratch. It was a hell of a first day…”

The guys all made equal horrified sounds but Christina laughed. “That’s nothing, Miller. I was the one who had to reap that family who died in the fire over on Ashland last month. They weren’t legal so they’d been living in the basement, hiding until they could get papers, but their landlord had locked them in,” she explained. “There were four kids. It was disgusting.”

A waiter came by with a tray of pigs in blankets and Mickey grabbed for them, hoarding a mini-plateful. He pulled one off its toothpick with his teeth. They were his favorite, and Mandy used to get them for him from Walmart all the time.

“My kids make that same face when they eat pigs in blankets,” Jerry told him.

Mickey swallowed. “Kids? Shit,” he said. He could understand how hard it would be to leave behind family, a spouse, whatever… but kids? That fucking sucked.

“Yeah, but the good thing about today is that we get to go home early,” Jerry told him with a smile.

Mickey couldn’t believe how casual Jerry was being about it. He went and stalked Mandy at school _once_ and felt like a friggin’ SWAT team was going to come down around him, but Jerry was blatantly admitting to seeing them…

“How do you get away with it?” he asked.

“What?” Jerry tilted his head to the side and stared at Mickey.

“You know, watching them… I thought you’re not allowed to see your old family…” They’d been talking about it earlier, when Mickey mentioned going to see Mandy, but Jerry hadn’t spoken up then. If there was a way for him to do it without getting into trouble, Mickey sure as fuck wanted to know.

Jerry coughed, looking uncomfortable. “They’re my new family,” he explained. He took out his wallet and showed Mickey a picture of a happy family, with some random guy that didn’t even look like him. “That’s me,” he said, pointing at the stranger.

“They’re getting so big!” Christina said over Mickey’s shoulder, looking at the wallet.

“I know. Anyway, I think I’ve shown my face around here enough to not get into any trouble. I promised Ella I’d take her to soccer practice after school and I’d love to surprise my wife by getting home early. It was nice meeting you, Mr. Miller, Mr. Hicks,” he said to Mickey and Eric, respectively. “See you next month?”

Mickey nodded while Eric, friendly as ever, shook Jerry’s hand.

He watched the blond leave and then whispered to Christina, since she seemed to know him better, “How does he get away with having a family? Don’t they ask questions?”

“He does it the same way I would guess secret agents do it: with a cover job,” she explained. Mickey was reminded of Ian and his attempts at guessing Mickey’s profession. He felt a sudden urge to text him, but knew that it wasn’t the right time. He focused on Christina as she continued with her explanation. “He tells them all he’s a broker. Has a fake office, with a fake secretary who transfers his calls to his cell phone, and he calls them back ‘from the trading floor’ when anyone decides to stop by.”

“And the Company pays for it?” Eric asked, equally interested.

“The longer you work here, the more seniority you get,” Eddie told them. “Your salary goes up, and you can get a nicer place to live. They definitely compensate well.” Mickey eyed Eddie’s watch, knowing that Old Mickey would have already nicked the ostentatious thing by now.

Eric went to get them all another round of drinks while Mickey finished up his pigs in blankets, and when he returned, Eddie and Christina showed them around, pointing out the different groups around them.

“They’re the ones who work the night shift,” Christina said, pointing at a group of the most intimidating guys Mickey’d ever seen, and that was saying a lot. He felt like he was looking at a football team, the men ‒ and the one woman ‒ were all so fucking huge and completely jacked. He looked away, deciding it would give him a complex if he didn’t. Chicago was a rough city, after all, so it sort of made sense that the night shift would need to be more fit than the rest of them.

“Then let me guess, those are the weekend shift?” Eric asked, pointing to the older people huddled under the oak tree that Mr. Smith had shown to Mickey earlier.

“Are you kidding?” Eddie looked at him like he was smoking something. “Weekends are everyone’s _dream_ shift. No, those are mostly managers.”

Eric rolled his eyes but Eddie went on. “Laugh all you want, but some of them have been around since the days of Al Capone.”

“Mrs. Davis was the one who reaped two the Unabomber victims back in the nineties,” Christina added.

“So the ones on the weekend shift only work two days a week?” Mickey asked. It sounded like a sweet deal.

Both of the senior reapers nodded. “Weekends are reserved for the best of the best.” Eddie pointed at another group of reapers standing near the dessert tables. Mickey didn’t know a lot about fashion, but he could tell just from looking at them that they were flush.

“See the brunet with the slicked-back hair?” Christina asked them, practically swooning. “That’s Mr. Nichols.”

Mickey looked over to find the one she was talking about and his heart stopped. He recognized the reaper as the one who had bumped into him and his brother. He played the moment over in his mind, like it was a movie being watched in slow motion, and could recall every second of it clearly. He’d bumped into Colin first, tapping him with his ring on the shoulder, and then Mickey on his back. Even without the sunglasses, Mickey was sure that Nichols was the one who had been there outside of the garage.

“Mickey?” Eric said too familiarly, putting a hand on his shoulder. “You alright?”

Mickey shook his head and then batted Eric’s hand away. “I’m fine.”

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost…” Eric pressed.

“I thought you said he has the weekend shift,” Mickey said accusingly. He had definitely not died on a weekend.

“Weekends and special cases,” Eddie amended, still watching the elite group of reapers. “They’re the ones who reap reapers.”

They were all quiet for a while, and Mickey had a chance to digest all of the information he’d acquired over the course of the last hour and a half.

It wasn’t Nichols’ fault he’d died. He didn’t really feel any real animosity towards the guy… The bitterness he was feeling was more of a general sucks-to-be-dead feeling.

But if he thought about it, _really_ thought about it, did being a reaper really suck? There were a lot of advantages to his new life, especially if Jerry Lance was anything to go by. Just because Mickey was a reaper didn’t mean he couldn’t have a regular life. In addition, Old Mickey definitely wouldn’t have met Ian.

Mickey resented being dead, sure, but what better way to let go of those frustrations than to get laid? He took his phone out and opened up a new text message.

_Hey. When do you finish class today?_

He hit send and waited for Ian’s reply.

_What, you can’t look it up with your super-spy resources? :-p_

_3:30_

_Last class was cancelled._

Mickey smirked, his phone vibrating in his hand three times in a row.

_Good. Come over when you finish._

The only answer he got was one of those stupid sunglass-wearing emojis.

* * *

Mickey left the Company get-together as soon as he saw some of the other reapers start to go, and got home about twenty minutes before Ian knocked on his door. They made out in his doorway, not moving inside or closing the door until they heard his neighbor’s footsteps coming up the stairs.

They only made it as far as the living room, pieces of clothing strewn across the floor all the way from the door to the couch. Feeling more confident than ever, Mickey rode Ian for the first time, using the back of the couch as leverage. He loved being the one in control, loved seeing Ian underneath him, writhing with longing, hands sliding up and down Mickey’s body in appreciation.

Ian’s fingers lingered on Mickey’s chest, just over the spot where he’d been shot, where the small depressed circle of scar tissue was only visible to Mickey. Ian rubbed small rings around the area, as if he knew exactly what was hidden there, before making eye contact with Mickey and sitting up to swallow his lips into a kiss. Their lips stayed connected while they fucked until they both came, finishing within moments of each other.

When they were done, Mickey laid back and watched Ian smoked a cigarette, taking a well-needed break ‒ just long enough for him to be able to go another round. He walked to the bathroom, not rushing to close the door behind him this time, fully aware that Ian was practically salivating as he watched him walk away.

Mickey stepped into the shower once the water had warmed up. He washed his chest first, rubbing at the sticky seed that had slid down to his belly, then closed his eyes and leaned forward, wetting his hair.

True to his word, Ian joined him in the shower. Mickey opened his eyes when he heard the glass door slide open, and stepped aside to let Ian get under the stream. It was weird standing so close to him, seeing his naked body without actively touching it. Mickey was tempted to reach out and run his hands along Ian’s skin, but controlled himself.

The water pressure was so strong that it made Ian’s hair part in random directions as it hit him, making him look much younger than he was.

“This is a nice shower,” he said, smiling like he was complimenting more than just Mickey’s shower.

“I know,” Mickey agreed. “Now don’t be a hog.” He gently pushed Ian out of the way, grinning like a rich kid who didn’t want to share his toys. Mickey expected him to argue, but Ian only reached behind him, grabbing the shampoo bottle from the corner rack. Mickey would be lying if he said he didn’t appreciate the view of Ian stretching past him, muscles in his shoulder, arm and even his back undulating with the movement.

Mickey held his palm out and Ian poured a bit out for Mickey, then for himself.

“So this is how your hair always smells so good,” he said, taking a sniff of the shampoo.

“Shut up,” Mickey told him, turning away to lather his hair up so that Ian wouldn’t see the smile creeping up his cheeks, secretly loving all the corny compliments Ian always gave him.

He rinsed the soap out and stepped aside to let Ian get closer, knowing how cold he must be while on the opposite side of the shower. As if proving him right, he felt the goosebumps on Ian’s arm rub against his chest they switched positions. A few seconds later, Mickey was the one feeling cold and starting to think that two grown men showering together was a fucking stupid idea.

Until Ian closed his eyes and tilted his head back, using his hands to slick his hair back, pushing the shampoo out of it. Mickey licked his lips and felt his cock hardening once more. He took a step closer to Ian, startling him by invading his space.

“So uh,” he rubbed at his mouth with his thumb, “What about that shit you promised to do to me?" he prompted.

Ian’s lips twisted into a smirk. “You ready to go again?” Mickey watched as Ian’s eyes flicked down to look at his dick. “Guess so…”

He put his arms on Mickey’s shoulders and kissed him tenderly, soft lips pressing against Mickey’s. Then without warning, he spun Mickey around and shoved him forward into the tiles, just like Mickey had imagined, only he boxed Mickey’s body with his own, arms framing him on either side while Ian trailed kisses on Mickey’s neck.

Old Mickey would have been worried about Ian leaving hickies on his skin, but there were two reasons Mickey reached a hand up into Ian’s hair to pull him closer and encourage him to continue instead of stopping him: first, he didn’t bruise anymore since becoming a reaper; and secondly, he had no reason to be embarrassed by it ‒ not when it felt so fucking good.

He felt Ian’s dick growing against the back of his thigh, just under his ass, and bit his lip. “Ugh,” he groaned, the deep sound rumbling in his throat.

Ian slid his hands down Mickey’s back, dragging them down to his butt, and grabbed two fat handfuls. Mickey half expected him to make a comment about how much of a “perfect” ass he had again. Ian massaged Mickey’s cheeks in his palms, water splashing against the wall as its path was interrupted.

Mickey turned his head to the side when Ian stopped kissing him, looking over his shoulder to see Ian kneel to the ground. He gasped sharply when he felt Ian pull his cheeks apart, wasting no time before diving right in, sliding his tongue down between them.

He forced himself to relax for Ian, even spreading his legs apart to allow him better access. He felt Ian eagerly lick at his hole, prodding at the already stretched muscles with his tongue. Mickey moaned when Ian added a finger to thrust alongside the movements of his tongue.

He pushed back against Ian, urging him on, so Ian obliged by pressing deeper into Mickey, hooking his finger at just the right angle to rub against Mickey’s prostate, massaging it gently with every stroke. Mickey couldn’t believe how quickly the sensation hit him; one second he was fine and the next he was ready to orgasm.

Mickey’s body went rigid and he held his breath, fighting the embarrassing urge to bust a nut right then and there, and Ian must have picked up on his tension because he finally relented, pulling his finger out and huffing a small laugh against Mickey’s ass cheek.

“That good?” he asked, voice teasing.

“Shut the fuck up and get in me,” Mickey muttered, grateful for the coolness of the tiles against his forehead. He reached a hand down and tightly squeezed at the base of his dick to slow things down. He didn’t know why Ian was wasting time prepping him when he was still loose from their previous round.

Ian blatantly ignored Mickey and instead continued assaulting Mickey’s ass with his tongue. Mickey closed his eyes and sighed, knowing the only thing he could do right now was enjoy himself. He wasn’t sure how long Ian licked and played with his ass, but when he finally stood up and pressed his hot torso against Mickey’s back, holding Mickey’s hands against the shower wall with his own, Mickey noticed that both of their fingers had already begun to wrinkle.

Ian resumed kissing Mickey’s neck and Mickey turned his head to the side to catch Ian’s lips with his own. Ian snaked a hand around Mickey’s waist and reached for his erection, grabbing his cock with his wet fingers and stroking it.

“Fuck me already,” Mickey groaned.

He felt Ian’s nose behind his ear. “Can’t,” he breathed, nipping at Mickey’s earlobe. “Forgot to bring a condom in with me.”

“I don’t give a fuck,” Mickey grunted, hoping he didn’t sound as desperate for Ian as he felt.

“Are you… sure?” Ian asked, voice halting. “I mean, I’m clean,” he said quickly, tripping over his words. “I’m not seeing anyone else but I didn’t think…” he swallowed. “Are you…”

Mickey turned around to face Ian. He couldn’t exactly explain that he wasn’t worried about catching anything because he was a reaper, but he also hated the way that hearing Ian say he wasn’t fucking anyone other than him made him feel, because he had no right to be jealous.

“I’m not either,” Mickey told him, if only to save Ian from the mini freak-out session he was clearly having.

Ian reached for Mickey’s face and tilted his head towards him with a single, wrinkly finger pressed under his chin, then kissed him deeply.

Mickey pulled back. “Don’t go thinking this changes anything,” he said gruffly. They were still just fuck buddies, and Mickey didn’t want Ian getting any ideas.

“I didn’t say anything,” Ian told him innocently, still smiling like a goofball.

Mickey knew the awkward exchange didn’t mean they were a couple or anything, but it definitely meant _something_ , and he let Ian have the moment without making any other snide comments, secretly enjoying seeing him happy.

“Now,” Ian said, smile turning mischievous, “Did I tell you you could turn around?”


	7. Dinner Isn’t the Only Thing Heating Up

The next few weeks passed in a blur. Mickey stuck to his routine: he got up on time, got dressed, picked up his assignments, reaped the unfortunate souls on his list, had lunch at the diner if time permitted it, reaped some more, and went home. The only change came on the nights he called Ian.

Their hookups weren’t regular in the sense that there was a set schedule, but they happened often enough that Ian came over on more nights than he didn’t. Whenever he was bored, he would call Ian. Horny? Definitely text Ian. And the sex was always fantastic, just as hot as it had been the first time.

But all the while, Mickey remained inflexible in his refusal to allow Ian to spend the night. If Julia Roberts could have her no-kissing rule, then he could have this.

* * *

Ian came over on a Friday night a bit earlier than usual. Mickey hadn’t finished making dinner yet, though “making” was a strong word since in reality he was only nuking a hot pocket.

Ian followed him into the kitchen area and they stood there awkwardly watching the microwave plate rotate for all of thirty seconds until Ian clearly decided he didn’t feel like waiting any longer. He rested his hands on Mickey’s hips and stepped up closer, forcing him back until his legs hit the counter. It seemed like Ian loved boxing him in, and Mickey fed off of Ian’s excitement whenever he constrained him.

Mickey grinned just before Ian hungrily kissed him. It was warm and wet and so undeniably delicious that he didn’t know how he ever went without Ian’s lips on his. He let out a small sigh as he felt the monotony of his day slip away, replaced by the thrill of being with Ian, about to hook up in his fucking kitchen.

Ian’s soft lips enveloped his own, tongues running against each other while Ian slid his fingers under Mickey’s shirt and up his torso, caressing his body. He pulled back momentarily to take Mickey’s shirt off and tossed it onto the floor somewhere near the stove, before he went back to kissing him. The beeping of the microwave went unnoticed.

They made out for another few minutes until Mickey decided Ian’s shirt needed to join his on the floor. He pulled it up and over Ian’s head then then threw it backwards, not caring where it landed, as long as it was gone. Ian took a deep inhale of the crook of Mickey’s neck while his head was turned away, humming in appreciation. He trailed his tongue from Mickey’s neck to behind his ear, licking and caressing any skin he could get his mouth on. At the same time, he tightened his grip on Mickey’s waist and moved so that he was standing with one foot between Mickey’s legs, rubbing his crotch against Mickey’s thigh, even through his thick jeans.

Mickey brought a hand up to the back of Ian’s head and ran his fingers through the short, spikey hair there. Ian continued rutting against him, making Mickey thankful that he was in baggy sweatpants instead of the fitted jeans Ian had on. He had grown hard enough to tent his pants.

Ian leaned back and worked at his belt, sloppily unbuckling it. Mickey hurried to pull down his own pants while Ian unzipped his. Ian took a bottle of lube out from his pocket and set it onto the counter before he let his pants drop, allowing his erection to spring out.

“Aren’t you the perfect boy scout,” Mickey teased, looking at the lube. When he looked to Ian, Mickey saw that he was watching him with a hungry, lustful expression on his face.

“Bend over,” he instructed Mickey, who wasted no time in complying. He spread his legs and bent forward, bracing himself against the counter. Ian made quick work of prepping him, then lined his dick up with Mickey’s wet hole and pushed in, slowly pressing deeper until he was fully resting inside of Mickey. His voice was hoarse as he ground out a loud “fuck”.

Ian put his hands on top of Mickey’s on the counter, flattening them against the cool surface. He rocked back and forth in small, slow movements, which always annoyed Mickey because he just wanted them to _get on with it already_ , but as usual, Ian waited until he felt Mickey relax around him. He ghosted his fingers over Mickey’s knuckles, over the tattoos it was impossible for him to see, then let go and grabbed Mickey’s hips, using them as leverage to deliberately pound into Mickey with increasing speed and force, eliciting encouraging groans with every thrust.

Ian continued his relentless assault on Mickey, who was thankful for the hard counter to lean against as Ian’s cock pounded into him. When he felt he was getting closer to climaxing, he reached an arm down and started jerking himself off, but Ian quickly took over, stroking in time with his own thrusts. Within minutes, Mickey felt the warm, sticky ropes of his cum shooting out onto the counter. A minute later, Ian was spilling into him, his body shaking against Mickey’s back with each deep spasm.

He pulled out carefully, still panting. Once his dick was out, Mickey felt the slickness of Ian’s cum slide down between his legs. Ian was laughing as he grabbed a sheet of paper towel from beside the sink and wiped at his wet dick first, and then at the mess Mickey had made on the counter. Mickey rolled his eyes and went to the bathroom to clean himself up.

* * *

“You hungry?” Mickey asked Ian when he returned to the kitchen.

Ian nodded, so he went over to the microwave and tossed out the long-forgotten hot pocket, then got two new ones out from the freezer and put them in.

“At least make yourself useful,” he told a still-naked Ian, pointing to the cabinet where the plates were kept.

He pulled his underwear on while Ian got the plates out. The microwave beeped to signal it was done but Ian was the one to get the stuffed sandwiches out. He put one on each plate and passed Mickey his.

Mickey carefully tore the paper sleeve open, knowing that if he rushed the process, he would likely burn himself. Ian, on the other hand, clearly did not have such foresight.

“Ow!” he yelped, pulling his hand away quickly, sucking on a finger. Mickey didn’t bother suppressing his laugh at Ian’s misfortune, his snigger getting louder even as Ian glared at him.

Mickey leaned back against the counter, plate in one hand and hot pocket in the other, watching Ian hesitate before tentatively picking at his sandwich sleeve again. Mickey huffed out another small laugh until Ian scowled at him.

“Eat, and we’ll go again,” Mickey said, raising his eyebrows suggestively. Ian grinned and took an exaggerated bite of the hot pocket, getting sauce and cheese all over the corners of his lips and on his chin. Mickey considered licking it off but knew that it would only lead to another wasted dinner.

They both laughed as they ate, Mickey by the sink and Ian hunched over the island in the middle of the small kitchen area, when there was a knock on the door. Mickey was confused because the only person who ever visited him was Ian, and he was standing right there, naked and eating a hot pocket.

Mickey quickly knelt and grabbed the closest clothes he could find, which happened to be his sweatpants, then went to answer the door. He only opened it a crack and saw Mr. Smith standing there on the other side.

“Mr. Miller,” his boss said, tilting his head towards him in greeting. “May I come in?”

Mickey chewed on his bottom lip, looked guiltily towards a half-dressed Ian, then shook his head slightly at Mr. Smith.

“I see,” he said with a straight face. “Well then, I suggest you see your guest off and meet me at the office as quickly as you can.”

“What’s going on?” Mickey asked, not used to the urgency in Mr. Smith’s voice.

“Big job tonight,” his boss told him. “We need everyone to come in.”

Mickey blinked. “Really? Everyone?”

Mr. Smith nodded and left without another word.

Mickey closed the door and went back to the kitchen.

“Who was that?” Ian wanted to know.

“Something came up at work… That was my boss,” he explained.

“You have to go to work _now_?”

Mickey nodded.

“Why couldn’t he just call you?”

Mickey shrugged, but felt relieved when Ian stood and started looking for his own clothes. At least he wouldn’t have to be the one to kick him out again. He went to his room and opened the closet, taking out a fresh, clean suit.

“Have I told you how good you look in that?” Ian called to him.

Mickey looked up and saw Ian staring at him through the small opening for the door. “In what?”

“Your suit. Everything from the boxer briefs to the tie. I’ve always been a boxers-guy, but the way your ass and thighs look in those?” Ian looked at Mickey’s shorts and licked his lips. “Definitely makes me reconsider things.”

“Shut up,” Mickey muttered, stifling a smile of his own.

“Text me,” he shouted over his shoulder on his way out.

Mickey finished getting ready and checked himself in the mirror to make sure he didn’t look like he’d just had his brains fucked out of him against the kitchen counter before rushing out.

* * *

When Mickey got to the office, there was a line of suited-up reapers waiting to get into the building. Almost everyone he’d seen at the get-together a couple of weeks ago was there, and he gravitated towards the group where he recognized Eric and Eddie.

“Hey,” he said to the other newbie, who looked just as confused as Mickey felt. Eric looked a little relieved to see him, which was comforting in a small way.

“How’s it going, Miller?” Eddie asked him.

Mickey shrugged. “It’s alright. What’s going on here?” he asked in turn, motioning to the other reapers standing outside.

“Nang thinks it’s gonna be some kind of a terror attack,” Eric said in a hushed voice.

“Think about it,” Eddie whispered back. “Short notice, high death toll, bad enough that they need everyone to come in… The Head Office usually gives better notice than this, so if it was something the night shift could’ve handled on their own, they wouldn’t have called us.”

One by one, they walked in and stopped at their respective managers’ offices to pick up their lists. Mickey’s paper had four names on it, all with the same time of death, and his address was the same as Eric’s. They walked their location together, along with at least ten other reapers, to an old, run-down apartment building that was surrounded by construction scaffolding.

“There are people still living here?” Eric asked skeptically.

It was hard to believe that anyone _could_ live in the building, seeing how it was so obviously in need of serious repairs. Some of the walls had large holes in them with nothing but plastic and hastily nailed pieces of wood closing them off from the chilly night air. The area wasn’t the greatest, so Mickey guessed that the tenants probably didn’t have any other options.

They went in and headed for the stairs because the place was too old to have an elevator. Mickey had no idea how tall the building actually was, but his best guess would have been ten stories or so. Each landing had two apartments that split off from the stairs. He went up until he felt his ring tug him towards the door. He was on the third floor, but Eric and the others kept climbing up, while a reaper he wasn’t familiar with stopped at the other door on his right.

Mickey went for the knob and the door was open, as per usual. He could feel the pull of his ring drawing him deeper into the apartment. He’d gone a couple of steps in when he felt the building shudder. He froze, staring at the picture frames that rattled against the walls. A heartbeat later, the furniture was shaking. Everything on the tables and shelves buzzed and clattered.

It felt like waves were rolling on the floor underneath him, so Mickey doubled back and grabbed onto the doorframe to steady himself until it passed. He didn’t think he’d ever felt an earthquake like this before, since Chicago wasn’t exactly known for its massive seismic activity. Mickey started to suspect that the earthquake would be the cause of the disaster the other reapers were expecting, but then it stopped.

The quake only lasted for a few seconds, but apparently that was all it took to make the decrepit building he was in wobble enough to leave it groaning in its wake. He waited for a moment to make sure the ground had stopped moving, but the energy in Mickey’s ring was getting stronger. It was thrumming on his hand, compelling him to keep moving forward, into the apartment.

He went into a bedroom where two startled children had just woken up from the earthquake. He quickly touched them with his ring and then rushed out again, still being drawn into the next bedroom to find their parents, the other two names on his list.

At the same moment that Mickey touched the parents with his ring, the shaking began again ‒ an aftershock, no doubt ‒ and the building groaned even louder than it had the first time. There was a crack that sounded like wood breaking, and the shitty apartment building began crumbling down around them. The parents ran to comfort their crying children but the ground around them split open before they could even leave their bedroom, taking Mickey down with it.

* * *

The apartment building had collapsed, ten floors falling down on top of and around him, but Mickey wasn’t hurt. He did, on the other hand, have to climb out of the rubble, which took him over ten minutes to do. When he finally was able to walk away from the building, he brushed the dust and debris off of himself, and looked around to see the other reapers around him doing the same.

There was a lot of screaming and crying around him. It was clear that not everyone inside had died, but he didn’t want to think about what condition the so-called survivors would be in. If he’d learned anything from working as a reaper even in the short period of time since his death, it was that he needed to stay detached, for the sake of his sanity.

Mickey looked around and spotted Eric getting up. The reaper waved to him, signaling for Mickey to follow him. He could hear sirens in the distance and figured it was probably best for them to get on their way, so he silently followed in the direction his coworker was going.

“That was fucked up, wasn’t it?” he asked, voice somber. Mickey nodded. “An earthquake like that, in Chicago, nevertheless. What the hell is happening to the world?”

Mickey hoped it was a rhetorical question, because he didn’t have an answer. As they walked down the street, Mickey saw that the city was in mayhem. They weren’t used to earthquakes, weren’t prepared for the destruction that came along with them. He supposed people in places like California dealt with this kind of shit all the time, but Chicago certainly didn’t.

They got to an intersection and Eric stopped walking, turning to face Mickey. “You have time to get a drink?”

Mickey made a face. It was pretty late and he didn’t really feel like talking to anyone, especially not after seeing what had happened to all of those people.

“Yeah, I get it,” Eric said, nodding. He took a little card out from the pocket of his suit jacket and passed it to Mickey. “Raincheck.”

Mickey looked at the small business card, saw that it simply said “Mr. Hicks” followed by a phone number, and tucked it into his pocket before crossing the street and heading home.

* * *

Mickey got home about ten minutes later. He heard a beep from the kitchen counter and realized he’d left his phone at home. By the time he walked in, kicked his shoes off and took off his jacket, it had beeped again with another reminder. He looked at the screen and saw that he had six messages waiting for him, all from Ian.

_hey_

_mickey?_

_are you okay?_

_hey, are you alright?_

_mickey... text me back._

_please tell me you’re okay..._

He hit reply and typed in a response.

_i’m fine, gallagher._

But instead of getting another text back, his phone started ringing. He answered it, feeling annoyed, but not sure why.

“Yeah?”

“Oh my god, Mickey. Why didn’t you answer me?” Ian sounded nervous.

“Forgot my phone at home when I went to work,” he told him.

“I have no idea where your office is downtown. Were you anywhere near that building that collapsed? There’s been so much shit on the news, and you didn’t answer my texts…”

He was rambling. Mickey had come to learn that Ian rambled when he was nervous, but instead of finding it annoying like Ian had said his siblings did, Mickey found it kind of cute. He liked being able to know when he was nervous.

“I said I was fine,” Mickey repeated, as usual ignoring Ian’s questions about his job.

“Good.” There was a long pause, then Ian added, “I was worried.”

Mickey froze ‒ even though they were on the phone and he couldn’t be seen ‒ because it was weird for Ian to say something like that. They weren’t close enough for him to say sappy shit like that. Mickey wanted to tease him about it, wanted to say something offensive yet witty enough to get Ian laughing, but the words didn’t come.

What _did_ come was a strange feeling of warmth. No one ever worried about him before... at least, not anyone who didn’t _have_ to worry because they were family. It was unfamiliar, sure, but he decided it wasn’t necessarily a bad thing to have someone care about what happened to him.

He heard Ian clear his throat and cover it with a plausible cough on the other end of the line.

It was getting weird… Mickey sighed. “Are you okay?” he asked, just to end the awkward silence. “Your family or whatever?”

“Yeah,” Ian said, relief in his voice. “The house shook a bit but we’re all fine. The little ones thought it was cool.”

More silence.

This was why Mickey hated talking on the phone: the silences.

“I’ll text you in a couple of days,” he said, hoping it would end the call, but also hoping that Ian would get message that he preferred to text loud and clear.

“Yeah. Okay... Bye.”

“Bye,” Mickey said, then brought the phone down and hit the end button. He berated himself for being so short with Ian the moment he had hung up. So what if his fuck-buddy wanted to make sure he hadn’t died or whatever?

At a loss for what to do next, Mickey went to the couch and put the news on. Every local network was broadcasting about the destruction caused by the earthquake. It had only had a magnitude of 5.6, but one of the nerdy specialists they brought on the news explained that the earth in the eastern United States was very different from that in the west, allowing the quake’s waves to travel further without weakening.

They said that the epicenter of the earthquake had actually been in Champaign, a random town in the middle of Illinois, but that Chicago had felt the ripples of it stronger than any earthquake it had ever experienced before. To be honest, Mickey didn’t really care that much about all the scientific crap.

He guessed that the building he’d been in had just been too old and shitty; probably one of the ones that hadn’t been rebuilt during the Great Chicago Fire. The news stations said the death toll on the building collapse was already forty-eight and counting, since rescue workers were still going through the wreckage.

In addition to the building collapse, there had also been a small bridge that had split in two over the Chicago River, but it had already been closed off, awaiting repairs of its own. No one had been hurt.

Mickey learned that a water main had ruptured downtown, killing a night crew of five city workers, and that the only other cause of mass fatalities was from a highway accident. A truck driver on the eastbound I-90 had panicked and stopped short, sending the tail of his cargo spinning around him, right into the other cars on the road.

The reporters kept telling people to find a safe place to stay to wait out the aftershocks. They warned the public to avoid going out unless it was necessary. Mickey turned the TV off, feeling a little annoyed. He imagined his family was probably taking advantage of the mayhem in the city. Hell, Old Mickey would have been right beside them, looting any store that had the misfortune of being in his path. Only, he didn’t feel like he was missing out on anything. In fact, he felt bad that Chicago was such a mess.


	8. Surprise, Surprise

Two weeks after the earthquake and another Company get-together later, things in Chicago were finally getting back to normal. Mickey had opted to ignore Ian’s momentary slip about being worried about him, and things between them had also fallen back into their old rhythm.

It was Friday night, so Mickey texted Ian to come over.

_can’t tonight, sorry. maybe tomorrow?_

Ian had never turned him down before, and Mickey wasn’t sure how to react.

_why not?_

He sent the question quickly before he could overthink it or decide not to asked for fear of sounding too needy.

_i made plans to hang out with some friends from school_

That shut Mickey up. He couldn’t ask more questions or push any further, knowing full well that one of those “friends from school” was probably his sister.

Part of him was annoyed, even angry, but it was a small part. Mostly he felt embarrassed for just assuming Ian would be free and waiting for his text, even though they had hooked up almost every Friday night since meeting.

Whatever, it wasn’t like Mickey couldn’t wait another day to see him. He could watch TV or something. He had a few turns in Words with Friends that he could play. He’d be fine; he wasn’t some bitch who had no life outside of his non-relationship.

* * *

Apparently a bitch was exactly what Mickey was. Half an hour after being unintentionally rejected by Ian, Mickey was bored out of his mind and itching to prove to himself that he had a life. He decided to give Eric a call and take him up on his offer to hang out. He still had the business card that Eric had given him on the night of the earthquake, so he took it out and dialed the number.

“Hello?” Eric said.

Mickey swallowed hard, pushing down his discomfort. “Hi... it’s Mickey.”

“Mickey?” There was definitely confusion in Eric’s voice.

“Miller,” Mickey clarified, slightly annoyed.

“Oh! Miller!” Eric sounded happy to hear from him. That was a good start. “What’s up, man?”

Mickey had no experience when it came to making new friends, so he got right down to his reason for calling. “You wanna go get a drink?”

“Definitely! Just tell me when and where.”

They met up at a bar near Mickey’s apartment less than an hour later.

“I’m glad you called,” Eric told him once they’d sat down in one of the booths.

Mickey nodded and didn’t mention the fact that he wouldn’t have called if he’d had _anything_ better to do.

Their waitress came by and took their order. Mickey hadn’t eaten dinner yet so he got a plate of onion rings to go along with the pitcher of beer they ordered.

“So, how is life? Or maybe I should say, your second life?” Eric grinned at his own joke while Mickey huffed a small laugh, shaking his head.

“It’s alright. Can’t really complain. Sure as hell beats the first one I had…” he told him.

Eric leaned forward, then asked, “Your life is better now?”

Mickey considered it for all of two seconds, thoughts briefly flitting to the time his dad flat-out punched him in the face for not getting him a beer fast enough. “Fuck yeah,” he breathed.

Their waitress returned and Mickey dumped out a shitload of ketchup onto his onion rings. “I got my own place, money, and best of all, I don’t have to be around my fucking dad anymore.” He took a bite of a greasy onion ring, savoring the unhealthiness. “And if the cost of that is that I have to work a fuckin’ nine-to-five job, then I guess that’s what I’m gonna do. Don’t you love the perks?” he asked.

Eric nodded but Mickey could see that he’d said something wrong.

“What is it?”

“No, it’s great. I mean, being a reaper is definitely interesting. And fucked up. And awesome. But my wife died in the process of me getting here, you know? I got a chance to come back, but she didn’t.”

“Fuck, man. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…” He put the onion ring down. “My brother Colin died with me too,” Mickey offered as a show of empathy.

“In the shootout?”

“Yeah,” Mickey confirmed. “Well, just before it.”

“Sorry.”

Mickey shrugged, but it wasn’t the first time he had wondered why he’d been picked to be a reaper and Colin hadn’t.

“I know it’s been months, and I’m trying to move on. Last weekend I decided to go out and try to get laid but it’s a completely different ballgame when girls can’t notice you!”

Mickey laughed, knowing exactly what Eric meant from his experience at the club the night he met Ian.

“I can’t imagine moving on to the point of having a whole new family like Lance,” he said, refilling his cup. “I _liked_ my life before.”

Mickey went back to eating his onion rings. It had taken him months to get to the point where he could admit that his new life was better than his old one. The only thing he missed ‒ besides Mandy, of course ‒ was his appearance, but at least with other reapers and in the mirror, he was still himself.

 

“Alright, enough depressing conversation for one night,” Eric said, clapping a hand onto Mickey’s shoulder. Mickey knew he was going to have to tell his new friend that he was not okay with it at some point, but that could probably wait until next time. “Eat up, and then we’re gonna play some pool.”

* * *

Mickey actually had a good time hanging out with Eric, even if their conversations about work only made him feel more and more clueless about his job. He had so many questions that he still didn’t have answers to, the most important of all being how reapers were chosen.

His curiosity ate away at him all weekend and even Ian noticed that his attention was elsewhere when they hooked up again on Sunday night.

He finally decided to just bite the bullet and ask; the worst that could happen was Mr. Smith not answering him. On Monday morning, when Mickey stopped at the office and accepted his list, he hesitated before putting it into his pocket.

“How do you choose who becomes a reaper?”

Mr. Smith looked up at him, raising an eyebrow behind his sunglasses.

Mickey wanted to take it back, to tell his boss that he didn’t really mean to ask, but the problem was that he _did_. He wanted to know badly enough that he held his ground, telling himself that Milkoviches didn’t run away.

Mr. Smith put his pen down and continued watching Mickey, who worried his lip under the scrutiny.

“I don’t choose anything,” he finally said. “It comes down from the Head Office.”

Mickey let his lip drop from between his teeth and scowled, annoyed with Mr. Smith’s non-answer.

“And who’s in the Head Office? “ he asked. “What is it? Where is it? How do they know who’s supposed to die? How does…” he swallowed. “Is there…” he started again, then pressed his lips together in a thin, hard line. “Does God factor into any of this?”

“So many questions, Mr. Miller…”

That wasn’t even the half of it, but Mickey had a feeling he wasn’t going to get any real answers. As long as he was talking, he figured there was no point of holding in the rest of his questions.

“I met a reaper at my first Company get-together who makes enough to have a cover job. How much do I actually make each year? And how long do I have to be a reaper? Is there a retirement plan or some shit? What happens if I decide to quit? Or if I fuck up somehow? Will I just die? Will someone from the _weekend shift_ be sent to reap me? Or will the Company let me live out my second life until I just _happen_ to die?”

He was angry. He hadn’t intended to explode like this. He had come into Mr. Smith’s office looking for answers, wanting to learn more about his new life, but by the end of his little rant, his fingers had curled into tight fists and he could feel his pulse racing.

“I’m afraid I don’t have the answers you’re looking for, Mr. Miller,” Mr. Smith told him, fake smile plastered on his face.

“Of course not,” Mickey huffed. It took everything he had to unclench his hands, exhale and walk out of the office _without_ punching Mr. Smith in the face.

* * *

Mickey decided he would go back to playing the good, little Company man, and showed up right on time on Tuesday morning, only Mr. Smith didn’t have a list for him.

“Mr. Miller, please take a seat.”

Mickey nervously looked around the room before slowly sliding into the chair facing Mr. Smith’s desk.

“We won’t be sending you into the field today,” Mr. Smith told him. He straightened some papers on his desk before looking up at Mickey. “Mrs. Davis has requested that you help her with some paperwork. She’s waiting for you in the training room.”

Mickey stood up. “Is this punishment for asking too many questions?” he wondered, keeping his voice calm and level, just like Mr. Smith.

“It’s a slow week, death-wise,” his boss said, and Mickey knew a dismissal when he heard it.

He left Mr. Smith’s office and walked down the hallway until he arrived at the room he’d gone to on his first day at the Company.

Mrs. Davis greeted him in a much friendlier manner than he expected. She presented him with a laptop and with boxes upon boxes of forms and papers that all needed to be entered into the computer and then filed into their proper folders. He went through stacks of invoices, rent receipts, payroll forms and the like for the entire morning.

At lunch time, Mickey looked up to find a sandwich and a bottle of water on the table, even though he hadn’t heard anyone come in. He bitterly ate it and continued working. At five, Mrs. Davis came in and thanked him for his help.

Wednesday was the same load of crap, the only difference being that his sandwich had turkey in it instead of ham. Mickey was pissed but kept himself in check, but was about ready to burst by the end of the day. He didn’t buy Mr. Smith’s lie about it being a slow death week, but couldn’t exactly argue. He took his phone out and texted Ian as soon as he left the building.

_come over right now._

Ian replied a few minutes later.

_is that an order?_

He wasn’t in the mood for games.

_you bet your sweet ass it is._

Ian’s response was instant this time.

_you’re the one with the sweet ass, Mick_

_i’ll see you in half an hour ;-)_

When Ian finally knocked on his door, Mickey tore it open, yanked him inside and shoved him back, using Ian’s body to slam the door shut.

“What the-”

“Shut the fuck up,” Mickey grunted, urgently shoving his lips against Ian’s, swallowing down his words.

Ian reached for Mickey’s ass as they kissed but Mickey grabbed his hand by the wrist and slammed it into the wall above his head. He tried to move again and assume his typical role of taking the lead but Mickey stopped him in the same way again, by slamming him against the wall hard enough to knock the breath out of him.

Mickey went back to assaulting Ian’s lips while simultaneously pressing his body up against Ian’s, shoving him back into the wall. Ian attempted to hold him one more time but Mickey bit at Ian’s lip, a warning to stop trying to control everything.

“Ouch,” Ian winced, bringing a hand up to his mouth and pulling it back to reveal a drop of bright, red blood on his fingertip. “You _bit_ me!”

Mickey grunted low in his throat and covered Ian’s lips with his own, completely ignoring the blood but still savoring it somehow. He reached up and tore Ian’s t-shirt open with one quick movement. The sound of the ripping fabric was loud in the otherwise quiet apartment.

“Mickey, what the hell!” Ian shouted, managing to push him back long enough to glare at him.

“Didn’t I tell you to shut the fuck up?” Mickey growled.

“Yeah, but I have to go home at some point, and I can’t exactly borrow one of your dress shirts to go with my jeans and sneakers,” he muttered, eyeing Mickey’s too-formal work clothes.

Mickey didn’t know what came over him. He was in such a bad mood that he reared his arm back and took a swing at Ian, only Ian caught Mickey’s clenched first before it could connect with his face.

“I spent three years in Junior ROTC,” Ian told him with a smirk. “If you think you can suckerpunch me, you’ve got another thing coming,” he warned.

Instead of trying to hit Ian again, Mickey swept a leg out and knocked him to the ground. Ian pulled Mickey down with him and they rolled together, wrestling for the most part, the fighting interspersed with making out and heavy rutting. It was violent, rough, raunchy and sexy, all at the same time.

* * *

“So that was… _different_ ,” Ian said as he sat back and smoked his customary post-coital cigarette.

“Different,” Mickey agreed, stretching his arms above his head, then cracking his neck. “But fun.” He didn’t add that it was exactly what he had needed to help him blow off some steam.

“Definitely fun,” Ian said with a grin.

* * *

Mickey had done paperwork every day for an entire week, and he was fucking pissed. He hated the monotony of it, hated that he had to spend the whole day sitting in an office and doing data entry. He regretted his decision to talk to Mr. Smith, and he couldn’t believe that it was only a week ago that he’d told Eric he preferred _this_ life to his first.

There was a knock at Mickey’s door. He opened it to see Ian in the hallway, leaning against the wall beside his door, paper bag in hand. They hadn’t arranged to meet up, but Mickey wasn’t about to complain when the delicious smell of greasy takeout hit his nose.

“I come bearing gifts,” he declared, walking in past Mickey and heading straight to the kitchen. He laid down the Five Guys bags and automatically went to retrieve plates, already knowing where they were.

Mickey opened one of the bags and breathed in the sweet scent of deep-fried goodness. He may have moaned, making Ian laugh.

“Shit, if I’d known you’d get so happy from burgers and fries, I wouldn’t have bothered with this,” he said, letting his backpack slide off his shoulder and laying it onto the counter.

“With what?” Mickey asked, staring at the backpack suspiciously.

Ian unzipped his bag and took out a shoebox. He opened the box to reveal a small cactus in a ceramic pot.

Mickey scowled. “What the fuck is that?”

“You’ve been in such a crappy mood lately. I could tell,” Ian said quickly, cutting him off before he could object. He moved the plant so that it rested on the middle of the small table.

“Anyway, this is just a stupid plant to lighten up your apartment, so it isn’t so _dead_.”

Mickey swallowed hard at the irony of Ian’s words.

“And don’t worry about taking care of it,” Ian continued. “It’s a fucking cactus, so you only need to give it a spoonful of water once a month or something. If you see it dying, water it. That’s it.”

Mickey made a face but knew Ian was right. He probably _would_ forget to water a normal plant…

“I figure, if you don’t wanna talk about what’s got you so stressed, that’s fine. I’m not complaining about the side effects of ‘Angry Mickey’,” he said with a grin, tightly grabbing a handful of Mickey’s ass in the process. He was clearly alluding to the rough sex they’d had two nights ago, which Mickey hoped they’d be duplicating soon.

Before he had time to complain about Ian getting him a gift, Mickey’s stomach grumbled loudly, reminding them both of the meal that awaited them.

“How ‘bout we eat first, and then I’ll eat your ass for dessert?” Ian offered. “That is, if you don’t _fuck me up_ for giving you a stupid plant,” he said with a wink.

Mickey froze and stared at Ian, wondering what had made him emphasize those specific words. He had to believe it was just a coincidence, because nothing else made any sense. He looked down at his knuckles, at the letters inked on his skin, and worried his lip. It wasn’t the first time Ian had made him feel like he could see the real him instead of the facade, and that completely freaked him out.

The last time it had happened, when Ian had circled the scar from his bullet wound while they hooked up, Mickey had been worried enough to talk to Mr. Smith about it. He had casually asked if anyone else could see through the “reaper magic”, but his boss had told him that only other reapers could. Only, with the way things were at work right now, asking more questions wasn’t even a possibility.

Ian passed Mickey a plateful of fries and a double cheeseburger and Mickey rationalized that the only logical explanation was that it was yet another strange coincidence. What other choice did he have?

* * *

To his relief, when Mickey went to the office on the following Monday morning, Mr. Smith had a fresh list waiting for him. He accepted it eagerly and went about his day with renewed enthusiasm.

The weeks continued to pass by without any issues and everything seemed to settle back into normalcy. At the end of the month, there was another Company get-together during which Mickey opted to keep his head down and his mouth shut. He decided to use the get-togethers as reminders for watering his cactus, which, to the best of his knowledge, was doing pretty well in his apartment.

One random Wednesday morning, Mickey happened to notice the date on his phone when the alarm went off. It was Mandy’s birthday, which meant that almost four months had passed since his death. Thinking about it in terms of the number of months he hadn’t spoken to his sister left him in a crabby mood for the rest of the day. He couldn’t even enjoying his pie at the diner, which was one of his favorite parts of the day.

“You should do something fun,” Fiona suggested when she took his plate away. “Take your mind off of whatever’s got you feeling so glum.”

Instead of arguing, he decided to follow her advice and shot out a message to Ian.

_Busy tonight?_

He left the diner and headed over to the hospital for his next mark, but didn’t get Ian’s reply until he was done with that reaping.

_hey_

_sorry, i was studying in the library and had my phone off_

_what, you didn’t get enough of me last night?_

He wasn’t in the mood to deal with Ian’s teasing, so he typed out his reply pretty quickly.

_You busy or not?_

He locked his phone and got into a cab take him to his next stop. He had three messages in his inbox when he checked it again half an hour later.

_i’m not busy_

_are you okay?_

_:(_

Mickey scowled and decided not to reply, not even caring anymore if Ian came over or not. He bought a bottle of Jack on the way home, resigning to spend the night alone.

* * *

Mickey had gone through half of the bottle when he heard from Ian again.

_just finished dinner. should i come over?_

He tossed the phone to the other end of the couch and took another swig from the bottle. He wasn’t sure how much later the banging on the door began, but it was already dark out. Mickey stood up and stumbled over to the door.

“Hang the fuck on,” he muttered as he felt around for the lock, realizing too late that things would have been easier if he had remembered to turn the lights on.

He finally opened the door and grunted when he saw who it was.

Ian stared back at him with concern on his face. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Fuck off,” Mickey said, shutting the door.

Ian stuck a hand out to keep Mickey from closing it completely. If he’d been sober, he might have been able to hold his ground, but that definitely wasn’t the case.

“Mickey…” Ian reached a hand up towards his face and Mickey instinctively swatted it away. “What’s going on?” he pressed, obviously not getting the hint. “Talk to me.”

“Talk to you?” Mickey mocked. “Why the fuck should I talk to you?”

“Maybe I can help…” Ian said earnestly. He looked at Mickey with so much concern and fondness that it reminded him of their phone call after the earthquake.

Mickey didn’t like feeling that way. It made him uneasy. He frowned and brought the whiskey bottle to his lips one more time. The liquid burned as it slid past the lump in his throat, making Mickey wince.

“Unless you can bring people back from the dead, that’s highly unlikely,” Mickey told him, voice solemn.

Ian looked equally confused and worried. “What do you mean?”

Mickey shook his head for saying too much, but regretted the action when the room didn’t stop spinning around him. He put a hand on the wall to steady himself, but Ian took the opening as a chance to slip into the apartment. Mickey was too dizzy to scowl at him.

“Come on,” Ian said, holding Mickey by the arm and guiding him to his bed. He eased the bottle out of his hand and took it to the kitchen, returning with a glass of water. He put it on the side table and then sat at the foot of the bed, just waiting.

At least five minutes went by until Mickey felt the wave of nausea ebb enough to sit up and take a sip. Ian remained patiently silent the entire time.

Mickey debated whether or not he could tell Ian what was wrong. He wanted to tell someone, and didn’t think he was close enough with Eric to do so with him. He hoped that, as long as he remained vague enough, he could probably avoid making a fucking mess of things.

“It’s my sister’s birthday today, but I can’t see her,” he blurted, hating that he sounded like such a bitch complaining about it. Telling Ian was a risk, especially since Ian and Mandy were friends, but he reasoned that there were over seven billion people in the world, so the coincidence of two of them sharing a birthday wasn’t that crazy.

“Why can’t you see her?” Ian asked.

“We don’t keep in touch,” Mickey said, but that wasn’t the truth, and he didn’t like lying to Ian. “I just can’t, alright?” he huffed. “Fuck.”

“Okay. Okay, you can’t see her,” Ian said, accepting it with a quick nod. “So that’s why you decided alcohol poisoning was a good alternative?”

“Shut up,” Mickey muttered, kicking at Ian’s knee. He didn’t have alcohol poisoning. Mickey had been piss drunk plenty of times, and on the scale of accidentally dropping the bottle to puking his brains out, he was somewhere around I-know-I-should-stop-before-things-get-bad-but-I-don’t-give-a-fuck.

“Alright, alright,” Ian said, jumping out of the way of Mickey’s kick. “Sorry.”

He was smiling, and it made Mickey feel fractionally less annoyed.

“I don’t think you’ve ever mentioned your family before,” Ian said to him, casually enough that it was just a statement, not a push to get more information out of him. Mickey just shrugged.

“Did I ever tell you about my little brother Carl’s ninth birthday party?”

Mickey shook his head and Ian’s eyes shone with giddy excitement. He toed his shoes off and pulled his feet up onto Mickey’s bed, sitting cross-legged.

“So, Carl wanted a G.I. Joe themed party, but my brother is a bit of a sociopath, so we decided that it was probably a bad idea,” he began. “My sister chose the theme of Iron Man, since the movie had just come out that summer and all the other kids were obsessed with it.”

He looked at Mickey, presumably to check that he was following along. Mickey gave a small nod and Ian continued. “Anyway, Carl was really pissed about it, but he didn’t really have any choice, so he went along. The thing is, my brother is an idiot, and when he wants something, telling him ‘no’ isn’t really an option.”

Mickey definitely understood _that_ feeling, especially when he’d been younger.

“So on the day of the party, the room was decorated with Iron Man shit, all of his friends showed up and got little glow in the dark chest plate stickers, and my sister even sprung for a cake with Iron Man’s suited up picture printed on the top. We called Carl downstairs, and instead of wearing the costume my brother and I had gotten him from Party City, he came down decked out in my Junior ROTC uniform ‒ even though it was ten times too big on him ‒ holding an _assault rifle_ he’d found in a dumpster. An honest-to-God AK-47, with a fully loaded mag in it,” Ian said, eyes wide even though he was the one telling the story.

“His friends bolted, and one of the moms even called the cops. It was a fucking disaster, but Carl was so fucking happy that we weren’t even angry. Luckily my sister’s friend was one of the cops who showed up, so we didn’t get into _too_ much trouble. Things could have gone a lot worse,” he said, laughing.

Mickey reluctantly smiled but tried to cover it quickly with his hand, faking a cough. “How is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“It’s not,” Ian admitted. “I mean, not really. I just wanted to make you think about something else, besides not being with your sister.”

“And that’s what you came up with?” Mickey teased, raising his eyebrows.

Ian shrugged. “It’s birthday-related…” he reasoned. He suddenly slapped Mickey on the thigh and stood up from the bed. “Come, let’s get you in the shower.”

“Fuck off,” Mickey scoffed because he did _not_ need a shower.

“No, really,” Ian said, pulling on Mickey’s sleeve. “You smell worse than my dad on St. Patrick’s Day, and that’s saying a lot. Seriously, it’ll help you feel better…”

He begrudgingly let Ian guide him to the shower, relieved when he left him to bathe in peace. The hot water felt comforting as it washed over him, relaxing muscles that had been tense all day. He let his mind go blank, focusing on small tasks that he could complete one at a time, like getting shampoo out of the near-empty bottle and rinsing off his body wash.

Mickey stepped out and dried himself off with his towel. When he walked out of the bathroom, there was a cup of coffee on the kitchen counter waiting for him. Ian was sitting at the table, drinking his own cup while doing something on his phone.

“Where the hell is that from?” Mickey asked, staring at the coffee suspiciously, since he didn’t have a coffee machine.

“It’s finals week,” Ian told him, as if that explained everything. When Mickey didn’t get it, he said, “I carry a can of instant coffee around with me in my backpack at all times.”

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Mickey told him, without any real bite behind his words. For a second, it registered that Ian had probably been busy studying all week, dealing with his own shit while Mickey gave him attitude for apparently no reason.

Ian shrugged, not looking bothered in the least bit, then put his phone away. He watched Mickey, apparently waiting to see what he thought of the taste. Mickey moved to stand beside Ian, leaned back against the counter and took a sip of the cheap-assed coffee. He conceded that it wasn’t _that_ bad; he’d definitely had worse on more than one occasion in his life.

“So what, you decided to expand your fuck-buddy responsibilities to include those of nurse too?”

Ian laughed and opened his legs wider, gently shoving Mickey to the side. “Just trying to help you sober up a little…”

Mickey raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” Ian said with a nod, leaning forward and innocently swinging his legs back and forth. “Don’t want you vomiting on me when I pound you into the mattress,” he added with a grin, and there was nothing innocent about the look in his eyes as he said it.

Mickey couldn’t help but return the smile. Ian somehow managed to say just the right things to put him into a better mood. Fiona’s advice to do something fun had been sound, and he made a mental note to thank her with a generous tip the next time he went to the diner.

Ian was gentle when they had sex a short while later, keeping his movements slow and deliberate. He still pounded into Mickey, but with more control and precision than their usual lovemaking, almost as if he was still trying to take care of him.

Mickey closed his eyes as Ian wrapped their bodies together and panted beside his ear, giving him goosebumps. He kissed the crook of Mickey’s neck and sucked in bruises under his jaw that would never appear.

* * *

“Are you feeling better?” Ian asked him. He took a puff of his cigarette and blew it out into the space above the bed. Mickey watched the little clouds of smoke twirl around in the air, almost in a daze.

“Mhmm.”

“Good,” Ian said, bringing the cigarette to his lips again.

A few minutes later, he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. “Text me this weekend, okay?” he said over his shoulder before craning his neck around to look for his boxers.

Something twisted in Mickey’s chest as he realized that he didn’t want Ian to go. He’d gotten attached, possibly even developed feelings for him, even though he didn’t want to and would never admit it to anyone, let alone himself. He would be more than alone with him gone… he’d be _lonely_.

Completely oblivious to Mickey’s sudden revelation, Ian breathed a small “oh” when he spotted his underwear and tried to get up off the bed, but Mickey reached a hand out and grabbed him, preventing him from standing.

“Don’t…” he breathed.

Ian sat back down and turned to look at Mickey. “Don’t what?” he asked, tilting his head to the side.

“Don’t go,” Mickey told him. He tightened his hold around Ian’s forearm. “Stay.”

Ian’s eyes widened. “Really?” he whispered.

Mickey bit his lip and nodded once, then scooted to the side of the bed to allow Ian to climb back in beside him. It wasn’t like they’d never lain in bed together, but it had always been in a temporary, post-coital, I-need-to-catch-my-breath-because-that-was-fucking-fantastic kind of way. This time, it was different. It was obvious that they both felt the weight of the moment, their movements awkward and restrained.

“Why the hell am I so nervous?” Ian said with a small, guilty laugh.

Mickey huffed out a laugh too. “I don’t fucking know,” he admitted, instantly feeling better knowing that they were on the same page.

He pulled the blanket up from where it had been discarded and forgotten at the foot of the mattress and covered them both with it. Ian turned onto his side to look at Mickey, leaning forward a few inches to place a gentle kiss onto his cheek. He pulled away to reach for the lamp beside the bed and turned it off with a quick twist of his fingers before returning to Mickey’s side.

Ian slowly, tentatively reached an arm out and laid it over Mickey’s waist. He waited a moment, presumably to see if Mickey would punch him in the face, then pulled Mickey closer, forcing him to also lie on his side, back flush against Ian’s chest. Ian’s body was warm ‒ a lot warmer than the blanket ‒ and Mickey’s ass fit perfectly into Ian’s lap while they spooned.

Mickey knew he would never admit how good it felt being embraced by Ian, or how comfortable and safe he felt in his strong arms…

... but one thing he wouldn’t deny was that he had never slept so well in his entire life ‒ not this one, nor the first.

* * *

When Mickey woke up the following morning, he couldn’t find his phone anywhere, but if the bright sunlight flooding his apartment through the windows was anything to go by, he had a feeling it was time to get up.

He gently moved Ian’s arm off of him and slid out of the bed, quietly getting dressed. He spent a few minutes looking around for his phone but gave up when he noticed the time on the microwave; he was going to be late to work if he didn’t leave in the next few minutes.

He looked over at Ian and saw him sleeping peacefully in bed. He considered waking him up, but knowing there was usually a gap between picking up his list and the first reaping of the day, Mickey decided to stop by the office first and then pick up some decent coffee for the both of them.

He got to work right on time and wordlessly accepted his daily list from Mr. Smith. He quickly checked it for the time of his first reaping, victoriously shoving it into his jacket pocket when he saw that he had over an hour before he needed to be at the hospital. That left plenty of time to stop at Starbucks and then go back to his apartment.

Mickey ordered two lattes and a pair of muffins. He stood off to the side, waiting for his drinks to be ready. Without a phone to entertain himself, he took out his list and began looking it over, since he had barely even glanced at it.

It was a long one with at least twelve names, but the bulk of his reapings seemed to be in the early afternoon. He scanned down, heart stopping when he got to the final name, all the way at the bottom: Ian Gallagher.

Mickey's mind started racing, the noise around him getting louder and louder until he couldn’t even make out any distinct sounds. He ran through his possible options, not liking any of them. He kept circling back to the same truth over and over: there was no way he was going to reap Ian. He wasn’t going to be responsible for taking Ian's life. Not now.

He left the coffee shop without bothering to get his order and resolutely walked back home.

Ian was still in bed when he got into his apartment, but he was awake, typing on his phone. Mickey felt his ring pulse a little, but it wasn’t strong yet.

“Oh hey, I think you forgot your cell here,” Ian said to him, not quite looking up at Mickey, attention on his phone. “I heard my texts to you chiming over by the couch like ten minutes ago.” He vaguely gestured in the direction of the sofa.

Mickey walked closer, knelt and picked up the small pile of Ian’s clothes a few steps from the bed, and tossed them onto the bed.

“Get dressed and get out,” he said, keeping his voice level and his face emotionless. The sunglasses helped.

“W-what?” Ian stuttered.

“Get. Out,” Mickey repeated, cruelly enunciating the words.

The look on Ian’s face was nearly enough to break him, to make him doubt his resolve for just a second, but he recovered quickly. Mickey knew that he would have to end things with Ian in order to protect him. He knew that he wouldn’t be able to be near him anymore or risk him touching the ring by accident now that his name had been on the list. But he also knew that he would rather never see Ian again than be forced to kill him.

Mickey turned away from Ian rather than look at his eyes any longer, their watery shine advertising his emotions and making Mickey’s chest ache. He distracted himself by searching through the couch cushions to try and find his phone.

“I’m not leaving until you tell me what’s going on,” Ian said. Mickey could hear the small but undeniable waver in his voice, but looked back to see Ian standing tall, arms crossed over his chest in defiance.

That was the deciding moment. He knew Ian wouldn’t give up on him ‒ on them ‒ without a fight. He would have to hurt him in order for to get him to leave.

“Nothing is going on. That’s just it: we’re nothing; you’re nothing to me. We’re done.”

“I don’t believe you,” Ian whispered. “You can’t…”

“Can’t what? End this?” Mickey spat. “What did I just say to you? Done is done.”

Ian pressed his lips together into a thin, white line. He moved forward but Mickey took an immediate step away, keeping the hand with his ring safely tucked away behind his back, away from Ian.

“What, you think because you slept over _one_ night that we’re boyfriend and girlfriend here? You're nothing but a warm mouth to me,” he said, the words tasting bitter on his tongue. The lie left him feeling sick and disgusted with himself. He wanted to throw up.

He turned away again, not strong enough to see the effect his words had on Ian.

Moments later, he heard the door click shut. When he turned around, Ian was gone.

Mickey fell onto his bed, pressing his palms to his eyes.


	9. The Aftermath

Mickey didn’t know what to do with himself after Ian left. He felt broken, and everything hurt. A reminder chimed from his phone and he picked it up, fishing it out from between the far arm and cushion of the sofa. The text Ian had mentioned sending earlier were on his phone, small green circle showing that he had unread messages. He opened them up.

_hey, where’d you go?_

_i’m really glad you wanted me to stay._

_oh btw, think you can bring back something for breakfast? the only thing in your kitchen is an empty box of poptarts._

Reading the texts was like pouring salt on a fresh wound. Mickey angrily stuffed his phone into his pocket but felt the crumpled list beside it. He felt sick with the realization that he still had souls to reap ‒ souls that weren’t Ian’s ‒ and sitting at home and crying about hurting Ian’s feelings to protect him in the long run wasn’t going to change that.

He took a cab to the hospital and reaped the first few names on his list. He had an interesting murder-suicide at a fancy hotel downtown just before lunchtime, where a wife walked in on her husband having an affair and decided to kill everyone there, including herself, but Mickey felt even more detached from the people around him than usual. He walked out of the room by stepping over the wife’s body, careful to avoid the pool of blood that had gathered around her.

He pushed thoughts of Ian out of his mind, concentrating instead on the next names on his list. He didn’t stop to look at his phone even once during the day, afraid that seeing the texts from the morning would break his resolve. He had to be strong and not give in to the temptation of contacting Ian. It was the only way.

It was late afternoon when he got to the last of the names. According to his list, he had to reap Ian at his school, at 4:33 p.m., which would be just a few minutes after Ian’s Art History class got let out, but Mickey went home instead. He turned on the TV and ate an early dinner, attempting to distract himself until the time of death passed.

The campus was a fifteen minute trek away, and at 4:18 p.m., he started feeling the first real pull from his ring. He’d never felt it so early before a reaping, and he wondered if there was some kind of built-in mechanism that could tell he wasn’t close enough to make it to his destination in time.

The strength of the pull increased exponentially with each passing minute, but Mickey deliberately ignored it. By 4:30 p.m. the thrum had become unbearable, the energy pulsating in his hand, begging to be released. He sat with his hand under his ass and watched the clock on his phone tick away.

4:31 p.m.

4:32 p.m.

Mickey bit his other hand in an attempt to distract himself from the pull he felt with pain.

4:33 p.m.

The time came and went, but nothing happened. Nothing changed. The same energy continued radiating in his hand like a heartbeat, sending waves of electricity through his body. Mickey didn’t know what he’d been expecting, but “nothing” definitely wasn’t it.

The fear that the pull would never go away slowly crept into his thoughts. This was unchartered territory for him. All he knew about not touching a person whose soul needed to be reaped was what he had learned from his brief conversation with Mr. Smith on his first day as a reaper, during his orientation. Mr. Smith had told him that fate had a way of dealing with things when the balance was fucked with. He’d mentioned accidents happening around the person who was supposed to die until the wrong was righted. He had no idea how long the pull in his ring would last, if the energy would eventually be released into his next reaping, or if it wouldn’t stop until Ian died.

What he did know was that it was going to be a long night if he kept worrying about it. He walked to the kitchen and found the half-drunk bottle of whiskey that Ian had taken from him the night before. He twisted the cap off one-handedly, doing his best to continue to ignore the ringed one, and brought the brown liquid to his lips. If he was going to suffer, he could think of only one way to numb himself to not just the pain from the ring, but also from thoughts of deliberately and efficiently breaking Ian’s heart.

He was sufficiently wasted a few hours later, but at least had enough willpower left to stumble into the bedroom, crash onto the bed and somehow squeeze his eyes shut against the pain. The maddening pull hadn’t stopped, but it also hadn’t gotten worse after Ian’s time of death passed. Mickey stopped looking at the clock, stopped thinking about anything. Swallow after swallow of alcohol helped.

In the dark silence of his bedroom, he could almost hear a buzz coming from his ring. Or he could have been imagining it. Maybe he was going crazy under the constant, urgent pulse of the pent up energy, the steady yet insistent invisible force pulling him to the south, in the direction of where he assumed Ian’s house was. He remembered Ian had mentioned living in Canaryville once, and remembered the surprise he’d felt at the discovery that their lives could have intersected previously, Milkovich and Gallagher, before things had changed so much for Mickey. Before he had died.

 _And now Ian might die too_ , the small, evil voice inside of him said. _But there won’t be any coming back for him._

He’d been right: he _was_ going crazy. He needed more alcohol, but when he tipped the bottle back this time, he discovered that it was empty. He would have to go the rest of the way alone with only his misery for comfort, then. He tossed the bottle to side and heard it shatter against the wall, not caring about the mess he’d be left to clean in the morning. He couldn’t think that far ahead. Not now… He tried to sleep, he _really_ did try, but he tossed and turned for hours, utterly unsuccessful.

He opened his eyes and stared at the ring, scowling at it, hating it. He’d always looked at it in the past, but never so intently, never with as much interest as he currently possessed. The red stone, the clear source of the energy, seemed to be glowing in the middle, brighter than it ever had in the past. The metal of the ring was etched with small designs that Mickey couldn’t understand, but this was the first time he wished he could. Maybe they held a clue about what was happening. He got lost in the ring, eyes searching every surface from all the different angles, until it all suddenly came to a stop.

The energy was gone. It had just vanished. No pull, no thrumming. Nothing. Mickey sat up and looked at the time: it was exactly midnight. What the fuck had happened? Did that mean Ian was dead? Had someone else been sent to reap him? Or had the timer on his life simply ended, unfulfilled.

The questions ate at him more than the incessant pain of the ring had. He was so worried about Ian that he finally gave up. He got dressed, googled Ian’s name, and set out to the only address for “Gallagher” he could find in the South Side. He didn’t know who the fuck “Patrick” was and couldn’t remember Ian ever mentioning a relative with that name, but it was his only lead, so he went with it. He had to see if Ian was still alive.

* * *

Mickey arrived at the address he’d looked up but was at a loss for what to do next. The lights were all off, as they should have been, considering it was the middle of the night. He stood across the street, in the shadows between two house identical in shittiness and “style” to what he guessed was Ian’s house, waiting. On the plus side, he didn’t see any emergency vehicles or grieving family members, so he took that as a good thing.

He stood for what felt like hours, eyes never leaving the house for more than a few seconds. He was so focused on it that he could have sworn he heard a loud thump come from the second story, even though it should have been impossible for him to hear anything from the house based on how far away he was standing.

A light turned on in the room just above the entrance, but Mickey see much through the window because of the heavy curtains. There seemed to be a few people hustling about, going off of the silhouettes he could make out, but then, to his annoyance, the light went out again.

He debated going up to the door and knocking, or even just walking in, since there was a more that good chance he wouldn’t even be noticed by anyone other than Ian, but ultimately decided to stay back. He knew it was the right choice when the living room light was turned on only moments later.

Mickey’s eyes hungrily searched through the glass, even at a distance, seeking any hint or sign of Ian. To his amazement, he recognized the person who came down the stairs, but it wasn’t Ian. It was Fiona, his waitress from the diner. Had he known her last name? Could the big sister Ian always talked about, who took care of all of his siblings like she was their mother, possibly be Fiona?

She had a small boy of maybe five or six in her arms and the kid was crying hysterically as she tried in vain to calm him down. Someone else came downstairs after her and she passed the screaming kid to them so that she could run out of the room. It was Ian. Mickey felt himself exhale, felt the tension in his shoulders slip away and the fear that had been suffocating him for the last however-many hours finally let go of him. Ian was alive.

He watched as Ian hugged the child and rocked him side to side, trying to comfort him. Fiona returned with a small white box which Mickey guessed was a first aid kit since the next thing she did was wipe at the boy’s forehead and put a Band-Aid on it. Mickey worried his bottom lip, realizing that the accidents Mr. Smith hinted at must have started happening around Ian already.

Mickey looked down at his ring to make sure it hadn’t started collecting energy again now that he was in proximity to Ian again. He felt nothing from it, which was a huge relief. He didn’t know what was going to happen to Ian, but for now, he was alive, and that was all that mattered to Mickey.

For the first time, Mickey stuck to the plan he’d set out on. He’d done what he wanted to do, which was to find out what had happened to Ian. He finally left the safety of the shadow he’d been standing in for the last couple of hours and started walking down the street, back towards the train, leaving of his own accord before he could be spotted or change his mind.

* * *

Mickey woke up on Friday morning feeling like he’d been hit by a bus. It was his first time feeling real pain since he’d become a reaper, and was clearly the result of the stress and relentless throbbing of his ring from the prior night. The alcohol he’d consumed probably didn’t help.

He forced himself to get out of bed and carefully walked around the shattered bottle. His apartment felt empty without Ian in it, even though it wasn’t like the redhead lived there or anything. Mickey had dumped Ian, but he hadn’t had a moment to really process it. Things between them were over. Ian was the only thing that mattered to him in his new life, and now he was gone. It was a fucking depressing truth, one that felt as crippling to Mickey as when he’d learned he couldn’t talk to Mandy ever again.

He got dressed, stopped for a bagel and a cup of coffee on his way to work, and went to the office, resigned to face whatever consequences he was about to be dealt. He knew he’d fucked up, but he also knew that if he’d been put in the same situation again, he still wouldn’t have reaped Ian.

He walked into the Waterworks building, in past the guard and through the elevator, down the endless hallway of management offices, and stopped in front of Mr. Smith’s room. He took one last, deep breath before turning the handle and walking in.

Mr. Smith was sitting at his desk as usual, absorbed in some kind of paperwork. He didn’t even look up when Mickey came in, just slid his list to him across the table. If he wasn’t going to say anything, neither was Mickey. It was entirely possible that no one had noticed.

Mickey took the list and quickly walked out of the office. He didn’t stop walking until he was clear of the building. He leaned against the side of nearby wall, struggling to catch his breath. He’d expected them to take his ring away, revoke his reaper status, fire him, possibly even kill him. He’d been ready for all of the above, but not none of the above.

With nothing else to do, he looked at his list and walked to his first location. One death at a time, he went down the rest of the names. He almost went to the diner for lunch, but decided he wasn’t ready to talk to Fiona now that he knew who she was. Instead, he went to Ian’s campus to check up on him again, carefully to keep enough distance to not be seen, even by accident.

Mickey felt like a total stalker, but he wanted to make sure that the fucker was still doing okay. He scrolled back in his texts with Ian until he saw a message about his study group meeting at the library before lunch. Mickey waited on the opposite side of the quad from the library until he saw the familiar red hair and checkered shirt walking towards the building.

Mission accomplished, Mickey turned around and started walking away. From the corner of his eye, he noticed someone else watching Ian. He did a double take and recognized it as Eddie. If Eddie was there, it meant that Ian had ended up on the older reaper’s list. Without thinking, Mickey stalked towards him.

“Ay,” he called out, trying to get Eddie’s attention. “Nang!”

Eddie’s head snapped to the side, searching for the source of the yelling, until he spotted Mickey approaching.

Mickey could see him frowning. “Miller? I didn’t know this was your district…”

Mickey didn’t waste any time and got right down to it. “Are you here for Gallagher?”

Eddie looked surprised. “What?”

“You heard me,” Mickey said, crossing his arms over his chest. “Ian Gallagher. Is he the one on your list?”

Eddie slowly nodded, still seemingly unsure of what was going on.

“Stay the fuck away from him,” Mickey practically growled.

Hearing Mickey’s tone, Eddie’s eyes widened and he looked back at Mickey like he was crazy.

“I’m serious,” Mickey told him, uncrossing his arms but clenching his fists at either side. He didn’t want to, but he was prepared to do anything it took to protect Ian, including ripping Eddie’s ring off and fucking him up to get the reaper to back off.

“That’s not how it works, Miller,” Eddie tried explaining. “We don’t get to decide who lives or dies.”

“I don’t give a fuck,” Mickey spat, stubborn as ever.

“But my ring-”

“It’ll stop at midnight,” Mickey told him, expression softening slightly. He knew how painful it had been for him to fight the pull of the ring, knew what he was asking of his friend, but he had no choice. Ian’s life was on the line. “ _Please_ ,” he begged, voice just a whisper.

Eddie looked at him with a tight-lipped frown, eyes searching his face for what Mickey assumed was some kind of a clue as to why Mickey was doing this... this ridiculously crazy, unimaginable, fucked-up thing.

“Alright,” he finally conceded, voice so low that Mickey barely heard him. He gave Mickey a terse nod. “But if Ian doesn’t die now, the accidents will begin,” he said.

Mickey nodded, not wanted to admit that they already had.

“They’ll just get worse,” Eddie continued. “More and more lives will be lost. Are you willing to have that blood on your hands?”

Mickey looked at the building again and watched as Ian and a few of his friends went up the stairs and in through the doors. He swallowed hard and nodded again.

“Yeah,” he croaked out. “I am.”

* * *

If other reapers were getting Ian’s name on their lists, it meant that Mickey would need to watch him around the clock. He knew Ian would at least be safe until the end of the night, so he left the campus and finished reaping the handful of names that remained on his list. At five, he went home to get some rest, knowing it would be a long night.

He didn’t really have a plan, but it was the start of the weekend, so he knew he wouldn’t have anything else to do, work-wise, that might prevent him from being able to protect Ian. On the other hand, he was a little scared about what the evening had in store for them. He’d heard stories about the weekend reapers, after all, and if the cream of the crop was sent after Gallagher, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to convince them to back off with words alone.

* * *

Mickey felt much better when he woke up. He’d gotten a few hours of sleep, which he imagined somehow made up for the previous restless night. He took a shower before heading out to Canaryville again.

He arrived at Ian’s street shortly before midnight, leaving a buffer in case someone was already there, waiting for Ian. He stood in the same spot he’d been in the night before, where he was hidden in the shadow of the houses on either side of him, out of the glowing reach of the streetlights.

The Gallaghers seemed to be watching a movie. The lights were off but he could definitely see the television screen through the window. Someone Mickey didn’t recognize stood up and collected empty bottles from the rest of the group, then disappeared into the back of the house. When he returned, he had fresh drinks and passed them out. He stretched to give the last drink to Ian and Mickey watched as he lost his footing and stumbled, falling head-first to the ground. The others in the room immediate stood, movie forgotten, and rushed to the guy’s aid. Someone had the wits to turn the lights on, and Mickey could see the panic on everyone’s faces.

Fiona shouted out an order and one of the younger kids ran out of the house at lightning speed, leaving the door open in his wake. He went to the house next door and returned less than a minute later with a black woman in tow. Mickey was tempted to go and see what was going on, but knew it would have been a stupid move. He was there to protect Ian from other reapers, not to take care of his siblings, which their neighbor clearly had under control. She had stopped the bleeding from his nose with a tampon and was elevating his foot.

Their neighbor eventually walked back home, but it seemed like movie night had come to an end. Fiona cleaned up, helped the injured sibling get settled and even ushered the younger kids upstairs. Mickey guessed it was way past their bedtime anyway, and pushed away the thought that they were better off as far away from their brother’s bad luck as possible.

Ian walked outside with his beer and took a seat on the stairs. Mickey itched to talk to him again, if only for a second, just to comfort him; he could see the sadness etched in Ian’s worried features. Fiona joined Ian a while later. She sat beside him and leaned her head on his shoulder. Mickey couldn’t hear their conversation, but saw the small smile Ian flashed her when she ultimately went back inside.

A few minutes later, Mickey noticed someone else nearby. A woman dressed all in black with her blonde hair pulled back into a tight bun was walking towards the Gallagher house. Mickey made the short leap that she was another reaper, based on her dark clothes and sunglasses. Without thinking, Mickey pulled out his phone and called Ian to warn him. He saw Ian take his phone out, but he scowled when he saw him purposely reject his call.

The other reaper was nearing the abandoned lot beside the Gallaghers’ house, and Ian was watching her approach. Mickey saw the reaper tilt her head to the side, step faltering when she saw that her mark was watching her. She was definitely put off by the realization that she wasn’t invisible to him.

Mickey didn’t have time to worry about how that was even possible. He emerged from the safety of the alleyway and ran across the street, moving towards Ian as quickly as he could to beat the other reaper there. He saw her stop walking when she reached the metal fence around the house.

“Gallagher, we gotta go,” Mickey urgently told him.

Ian's eyes widened in surprise at seeing him. “Mickey? What the hell are you doing here?”

“We can talk about things later,” Mickey said, stopping Ian from wasting time by asking more questions. “Right now, you need to follow me.”

Ian barked out a laugh, but the glossy sheen to his eyes betrayed him. “Are you fucking serious? You dumped me. I'm not going anywhere with you.”

Mickey nervously glanced at the blonde reaper who was still watching them. She hadn’t moved from where she stood, but she was rubbing at the stone on her ring.

He bit his lip, muttered a stressed, “Fuck.” He looked back to Ian and kept his voice when he said, “If you wanna stay alive, you are.”

Ian looked at him in disbelief. “Is that a threat?”

“Stop being a fucking idiot, Gallagher.” The problem was, Mickey knew he wasn’t going to win unless he did something drastic, and with the other reaper standing only a few yards away from them, didn’t have time to plan out a logical argument. “You haven’t noticed all the fucked up shit happening around you?”

Ian froze, face falling at hearing Mickey’s words. He clearly _had_ noticed the accidents. He’d have been an idiot not to.

“Did anyone die yet?” Mickey asked, raising his eyebrows while he waited for Ian to answer. He saw Ian visibly swallow, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.

“It’s gonna keep happening,” he continued, “And it’s only gonna get worse until you’re the one who dies. Do you really want your family to get hurt in the process?”

He didn’t mention that he’d already seen two of Ian’s siblings get hurt, but it wasn’t necessary; he could see he’d hit the right chord. “Come with me,” Mickey said, holding out his hand.

“So if I follow you, they won’t get hurt?” Ian asked carefully.

Mickey nodded.

Ian put his beer down and stood on his own, ignoring Mickey’s hand. He folded his arms over his chest, then walked down the few remaining steps so that he stood in front of Mickey, then asked, “Where are we going?”

Mickey hadn’t thought that far ahead. Before he could come up with an answer, the blonde reaper spoke, startling him.

“I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but it won’t work,” she said, her sharp voice causing Mickey’s skin to prickle with goosebumps.

“Maybe not, but I have to try,” he said, making sure to plant himself between Ian and the reaper. He couldn’t risk her reaching out and touching him with the ring that was already glowing a deep, bloody red.

“Who’s that?” Ian wondered, frowning.

“Questions later. Walking now,” Mickey ordered, motioning for Ian to get a move on. They went out through the gate and headed to the busier crossroad, where they were able to catch a cab. Mickey didn’t relax until he and Ian started moving, and only infinitesimally at that.

Ian turned in his seat to face him. “How did you know about the accidents?”

Mickey didn’t want to lie to Ian, but it wasn’t the right place or time to tell him the truth. “Not now,” he said, hoping Ian wouldn’t argue too much. _Right_ , as if _that_ would ever happen.

“What the fuck, Mickey,” he yelled unexpectedly, punching Mickey in the shoulder. Mickey winced and grabbed for his arm, massaging the numbness out of it. The last time they’d been in a cab together had been the night they’d met, and Mickey so desperately wished this time wasn’t the polar opposite of that one.

“You finally invite me to stay the night, then freak out and dump me the next morning, and now you’re here, what, protecting me? Kidnapping me? Why?” he demanded. “I thought you said we were done,” he spat, words cutting through Mickey.

Was that what Ian thought had happened? That Mickey had gotten scared about them? About making a commitment? But if he thought about it from Ian’s perspective, he could see how he’d drawn that conclusion.

“That’s not it at all,” Mickey tried explaining, but Ian wasn’t having any of it.

“You better tell me what the fuck is going on, right now, or so help me, I’ll jump out of this cab,” he told him, and Mickey could hear the seriousness of his threat in his tone. Their cabbie obviously heard it too, because he glanced at them over his shoulder and slowed the cab down.

“Don’t fucking slow down,” Mickey snarled at the old man. He gave the man his address and returned his attention to Ian again.

“Listen, I will tell you everything, but not here, okay?”

“The truth?”

Mickey knew he was crazy for agreeing, but he found himself nodding, promising to tell Ian the truth, even if it meant Ian thinking he was out of his mind, which was pretty much a guarantee.

* * *

They got into the apartment and Mickey offered Ian a beer, but Ian only stared at him with his arms defensively crossed over his chest. Mickey shrugged and took one for himself, welcoming the distraction.

“You’re gonna think I’m batshit crazy…” he began, then took a long swallow of his drink, wishing it was something stronger to give him a little extra boost of courage. He went to the living room and sat at the end of the sofa, motioning for Ian to join him.

Mickey thought about where to start, and decided that the best option was right at the beginning. He waited for Ian to sit, took a deep breath, and started talking.

“Did I ever tell you I was from the South Side too?” he asked, looking at Ian. It was a rhetorical question but he saw Ian slowly shake his head. “Of course I didn’t,” Mickey continued, “Because I never tell you anything about myself. Because…” he let his voice trail off. “Because I’m not _allowed_ to,” he finished, meeting Ian’s eyes again to make sure his emphasis on the word “allowed” would properly convey that it wasn’t really a choice.

“Something happened to me, and everything changed. I used to think it changed for the better, because I met you,” he admitted, hating himself for sounding so pathetic, “because I didn’t have to hide who I was anymore ‒ well, not the way I used to hide, at least ‒ but now I’m not so sure. Maybe it would have been easier if I had just died and stayed that way,” he muttered.

“Mickey, what the hell are you talking about?” Ian asked him, some of his anger replaced with concern.

Mickey smiled bitterly at Ian, because of course the idiot would be more worried about what Mickey guessed sounded a lot like committing suicide than about the ridiculous situation they were in and the truth that was about to spill from his mouth.

He couldn’t stall anymore. “I got shot around four months ago,” Mickey told him.

Ian frowned. “I know…” he said slowly, furrowing his brows. When Mickey looked at him funny, he explained, “I saw your scar?” voice rising with uncertainty at the end, making it sound more like a question than a statement.

“See, that’s just the thing,” Mickey said, chewing on his thumbnail. “You’re not supposed to see my scar. Fuck, you’re not even supposed to see me!”

“I don’t understand...”

Mickey put his head into his hands, dragging his fingers down the front of his face. It was a lot harder to tell the truth than he thought it was going to be, and he knew that it was because he was trying to explain things and rationalize them instead of just telling Ian everything. He stared at his ring for a minute, remembering how much pain it had caused him on the first day Ian had been on his list. He cracked his knuckles, took a deep breath, and started again.

“I got shot,” Mickey repeated, “and I _died_ ,” he said slowly, enunciating each word to make sure Ian was hearing him. “And then I came back to life as a grim reaper.” There. He’d said it, and it was finally out there. He waited for Ian to send him to the psych ward.

“This isn’t the time for fucking jokes.” Ian scowled at him. “You said you’d tell me what-”

“I’m not joking,” Mickey insisted, cutting him off. “I’m being dead serious.” Ian opened his mouth to argue but Mickey shut him up again. “Okay, that last pun wasn’t on purpose, I swear. Why do you think I never told you what I do for a living?”

Ian stood up. “You’re a fucking asshole,” he hissed, walking away.

“No, wait...“ Mickey grabbed for Ian, holding him back by his shirt sleeve. “Ian, I swear to you, I’m not lying,” he said, pulling Ian back down. “My brother and I got shot, but when I woke up, the bullet wound had closed up. I was in the fucking morgue, all healed. They even took my love of cigarettes away from me, the fucking bastards,” he complained. He didn’t go into how he’d googled it later and learned that the crap in cigarettes actually rewires your brain to create an addiction, and that becoming a reaper had also “healed” him of that.

“This creepy-ass Men in Black wannabe agent gave me a suit and took me to his headquarters in the Waterworks building. We went through a secret door in the elevator, and they taught me how to take souls for a living, as a nine-to-five grim reaper, working for a whole company of reapers. _I fucking swear,_ I couldn’t make this shit up if I tried,” he told him, shaking his head and how beyond ridiculous it all sounded.

“Every morning, I go in and get my list for the day, and then I go around town touching people with my ring and letting their souls rise to wherever-the-fuck they go after they die,” he explained, showing Ian the inactive ring. Whenever Ian had shown interest in it in the past, asking if it was a class ring or something, Mickey had always brushed him off. Now that he had finally decided to let Ian take a closer look at it, he cringed when Ian carefully reached for it to touch it, hoping that nothing unexpected would happen.

Mickey put his hand on top of Ian’s and made sure he was looking him in the eyes before he continued. “And the reason I kicked you out on Thursday was because your name ended up on my list, okay? Not because I changed my mind. Not because I don’t give a shit about you. I just… I couldn’t let that happen. I couldn’t be the one who reaped you. I care about you too much...”

He hadn’t meant to say all of that, but he was being honest, so it had just come out. He looked at Ian and saw the mixed emotions playing across his face. Mickey imagined all the different things that could be going on in Ian’s head: concern for Mickey, because he was talking like someone who’d eaten more than their fair share of ‘shrooms; love, since Mickey had basically just admitted how he really felt about him; anger, for being messed with and lied to. They were all perfectly valid possibilities.

“I couldn’t be the one to reap you. I couldn’t do it,” he said again. “And I knew you wouldn’t get away from me unless I _made_ you leave. But the thing about these lists is that if a person doesn’t get reaped when they’re supposed to, fate goes after them, Final Destination style. I _know_ you noticed it.”

Ian was quiet for long time after Mickey finished talking. “Why should I believe any of this?” he asked. “What proof do you have?”

And there it was: Ian was asking for the one thing Mickey couldn’t give him. It wasn’t like he could just reap a random soul on the street; he had to wait for his list. Taking Ian to the Company’s office was out of the question, because they had to stay _away_ from reapers, not go to their friggin’ hub. Plus, there was no way to show Ian what happened when he reaped someone, because only reapers could feel the energy in the ring and see people’s souls rising from their bodies after their moment of death.

On the other hand, Ian could see reapers, could see a lot of things he wasn’t supposed to see, so why would seeing a death be any different?

“Have you ever seen anyone die?” Mickey asked him.

Ian shook his dead. “No. My mom tried killing herself once, but we got her to the hospital in time…”

Mickey was at a loss.

“I don’t know how to prove it to you,” he admitted. “I really don’t. I can’t take you near the other reapers and I can’t reap anyone without my list, and I don’t get a new one until Monday morning,” he rambled. “Short of walking around outside and waiting for someone to bite the metaphorical bullet, I don’t have anything. Fuck, Mandy didn’t believe me when I told her it was me, but please, Ian…”

“Mandy?”

Mickey swallowed, not realizing he’d let that slip. “Umm…” He evaded lan’s gaze, chewing on his bottom lip.

“You know Mandy?” Ian pressed.

He gave a nervous laugh. “She’s sort of my sister…”

Ian’s brows furrowed. “But your name’s Miller. It was on your credit card that time you had me order Chinese while you showered… Mickey Miller.”

“The ‘M’ thing is just a coincidence, but I was Mickey Milkovich before,” he explained.

Ian pressed his lips together, lines of his forehead creasing like he was trying to remember something from a long time ago. He crossed his arms, hugging his chest like he had done so many times before Mickey waited for him to say something else, to ask more questions, to react in any way, but Ian remained quiet and contemplative.

It felt like at least five minutes had passed, Mickey fidgeting and worrying the entire time, until Ian sighed heavily and broke the silence. “Okay. So what’s the plan?”

Mickey wondered if he’d missed something. “What?”

“How are you going to keep some other reapers from getting to me?” Ian asked, uncrossing his arms.

“You believe me?”

Ian’s face took on a pained expression, like he wasn’t happy to be saying it, then shrugged. “I remember my brother Lip saying something about Mandy’s family getting into trouble with the Russians. Mandy never talked about it, so I didn’t press her for details, but she was wrecked,” Ian told him. “Even though she’d punch me in the face for saying that,” he added.

Mickey couldn’t help but laugh. He missed his sister, but it felt nice being around someone who could understand her like he did.

“Well, that, and you look just like her. I can’t believe I didn’t fucking make the connection before,” Ian said, shaking his head.

Mickey bit his lip again. “So you _can_ see me…”

“Uhhh,” Ian said, staring at Mickey. “What?”

“You can see the real me.” He twisted his face at how gay that sounded, and amended his sentence. “I don’t mean ‘the real me’ like who I am on the inside or some shit. I mean you can see what I looked like before I died. You can see through the Joe Schmoe veil.”

“What are you talking about?”

Mickey sighed and pulled his phone out of his pocket, taking a selfie just like Mr. Smith had when he’d had to show Mickey what he looked like to the rest of the world. He held the screen out and raised his eyebrows when Ian didn’t move to take it. “Look,” he ordered, leaning forward and pushing the phone into Ian’s hands.

He watched Ian’s mouth start to drop open in shock.

“So you don’t see that when you look at me?” Mickey asked, needing confirmation.

Ian looked like he was about to freak out and dropped the phone onto the couch cushion. He shook his head vehemently. Mickey waited for the inevitable explosion to come.

“How is it possible?” Ian wanted to know. “What’s wrong with me?”

“What’s wrong with- Are you fucking kidding? I tell you that I’m a grim reaper and you’re asking what’s wrong with you?”

Mickey knew that wasn’t what Ian was really asking, but it still sounded ridiculous. He wanted to know what made him different, something Mickey had no real explanation for.

“I don’t know why you can see shit that other people can’t. Maybe it’s because we spend so much time together? Or maybe it’s because I _want_ you to see me? Usually the ‘ignore you’ thing doesn’t work once I start talking to someone, or once I already know them.” It was the best explanation he could come up with, but it didn’t do anything to make sense of the fact that Ian had been the one to approach him at the club that first time.

“I think, in terms of making me believe you and all this supernatural shit, you could have started with that,” Ian said, nodding his chin in the direction of Mickey’s phone.

Mickey laughed, feeling like an idiot for not thinking of it until the last second.

“So I’m supposed to die, and the Company of grim reapers is after me now?” Ian looked at him and Mickey nodded. “And because I haven’t died yet, I’ve upset the balance of fate, and death will basically follow me around until I can’t evade it any longer?” he asked.

“In a nutshell…”

“And how are we supposed to run from death, exactly?”

Mickey huffed out a laugh. “Fuck if I know… I’m kinda new at this.”

“Great,” Ian said sarcastically.

“I mean, it’s not that bad. That chick who came to your house today was a weekend shifter. The way the ring worked for me was that it ran out of steam at midnight, so I think you’ll be safe for another day, as long as she doesn’t change her mind, until a different reaper on the weekend shift gets your name on their list. We just need to keep you away from anyone you don’t want getting hurt, and we should be okay.”

Ian didn’t look the least bit comforted by Mickey’s lack of a plan. “And what happens then? After another reaper comes for me?”

“Then I do whatever the fuck I need to do to get them to back off,” Mickey promised.

He sat back in the couch and checked the time. It was already after two in the morning, which meant they had just under twenty hours left.

“You should get some sleep,” he told Ian, showing him the time, but also relieved that he got in some extra sleep earlier on in the day.

Ian eyes looked a little crazed when he laughed and said, “Yeah, _that’s_ what I’m gonna do, now that I’m on a grim reaper hit-list. Close my eyes and make sure I’m as vulnerable as possible.”

“I’ll stay up,” Mickey scoffed, annoyed that Ian would think he wasn’t going to look out for him. “I’ll make sure they don’t get anywhere near you.”

Ian looked at him like he was being an idiot, but Mickey was adamant about Ian sleeping, knowing he would need all the energy he could get if things didn’t go as well as Mickey hoped they would. He just needed to bide some time, until he could come up with another plan, and it would be easier without Ian asking him a lot of questions.

They got up and Ian reluctantly followed him into the bedroom. Mickey turned the lamp beside the bed on, then bent and pulled out a pair of sweatpants from his bottom drawer. He tossed them to Ian, who put them on and groaned. They looked ridiculous on Ian’s lanky body, ending at least six inches above his ankles, so he opted to sleep in his underwear.

Mickey waited for Ian to climb into his bed before turning the light off and walking back to the living room.

“Wait,” Ian said, stopping him in his tracks. “You’re not staying here with me?”

Mickey turned and nervously looked at Ian, not sure that would be the best move right now.

“What if one of them tries coming in through the window?” Ian asked, eyes flicking to the glass on the opposite wall.

Mickey rolled his eyes but got into bed next to Ian, only he was mostly sitting upright with his back against the headboard. Ian pulled the blanket up to cover his mostly bare body, and Mickey could hear his breathing slow, even if he couldn’t quite make it out in the dark. A few moments later, Ian turned to the side and put his head in Mickey’s lap.

Mickey couldn’t help himself: he put his hand on Ian’s head, gently running his fingers through the dark auburn hair. The touch wasn’t much, but it was enough to make both men fractionally relax. Mickey knew he was a long way from being forgiven for the things he’d said to Ian, but Ian not recoiling from his touch was a step in the right direction.

Ian fell asleep soon afterwards.


	10. Catch Me If You Can

Mickey stayed up all night and watched Ian sleep. It was quite relaxing, actually, being in such close proximity, seeing Ian’s chest rise and fall with each slow breath, feeling his warm body on his legs, touching his soft skin when he thought he could get away with it. He breathed Ian in, committing every small detail to memory, not wanting to ever forget anything about him.

They stayed in the apartment and ordered in breakfast. Mickey didn’t want to risk leaving and exposing Ian to a higher risk of danger. Not many people would have been okay with pizza for breakfast, but neither Mickey nor Ian had any objections to it. The smell of the Chicago-style pizza was enough to make Mickey’s mouth water, even at ten in the morning.

He went to get plates while Ian dug through one of Mickey’s drawers in search of some knives and forks, since real deep dish pizza couldn’t be eaten by hand. Only, on his way to the kitchen table, Mickey saw Ian slip on the pizzeria’s menu that had fallen onto the floor and the utensils flew out of his grasp, rocketing toward Mickey.

The look of horror on Ian’s face was what alerted Mickey to the fact that something was wrong. He looked down to find all four utensils had lodged themselves into his chest. With a frown he pulled them out one by one, annoyed that they left holes in his shirt, giving a particularly hard tug to remove the fork that was stuck between his ribs, near his heart.

“The perks of being a reaper,” Mickey said with a shrug, making light of the fact that an accident like that would have probably killed him if not for his ring’s protection. Ian didn’t look amused, so Mickey walked up to Ian, picked up his hand, and pressed it to his chest. “Look. I’m fine.”

He felt Ian shudder, heard him let out a deep, ragged breath as the intensity of the situation wound down. Mickey let Ian’s hand go and it dropped uselessly to his side.

“Come on,” Mickey said, nudging Ian forward with his hip while simultaneously nodding his head towards the pizza. “It’s gettin’ cold.”

* * *

They were sitting in the living room, watching TV when Mickey heard the door to his apartment open. He knew had definitely locked it behind the pizza deliver guy, so the sound could only mean one thing: another reaper had come.

His head snapped to the entrance and he felt the same chill he’d felt at his first Company get-together when he’d recognized Mr. Nichols, the one who’d reaped him and Colin.

Mickey shot up and rushed towards the door, eyes flicking to the time on the microwave to note that it was only a couple of minutes past noon. He had miscalculated their time; the next reaper shift must have started at the twelve-hour mark.

He made sure he was standing between Ian and Nichols, making sure he had no access.

“Hold up,” Mickey said, hand held out, palm facing the reaper. “Can we just talk for a second?” he tired, hoping they could come to a simple solution.

“Mr. Miller,” Nichols said, running his hand over his stupidly perfect, slicked back hair. Mickey grimaced, hating the way his name sounded coming from the reaper’s mouth. “What on earth could we have to talk about?”

“Is he one too?” Ian asked, but Mickey looked at him pointedly, willing him to close his mouth and stay as far away from the reaper as he could.

Nichols smiled. “So much fuss about one little life?”

“Hey,” Mickey growled, his offense echoed by Ian.

“I’m not the villain here, Mr. Miller. There are rules. There’s an order. You’re upsetting that order.”

“Ian can see reapers. Does that mean he’s supposed to become a reaper too?” Mickey wanted to know, because if Ian was supposed to die only to come back as a reaper, then all of this wasn’t necessary. “Is that why they sent _you_?” he spat.

Nichols licked his lips. “He is not destined to join our ranks,” he told Mickey. “Is that true, Red?” he then asked Ian directly. “Can you see me?”

Mickey looked over his shoulder to see Ian swallow.

“Then tell me,” he continued, removing his sunglasses, smiling ruefully, “What do you see?”

“Brown eyes,” Ian said, then hesitated before adding, “and a dark, reddish scar beside your left eye, in the shape of a crescent.”

Mickey hadn’t seen the scar before, since Nichols had been wearing his sunglasses on all occasions he’d seen him.

“Interesting,” Nichols almost cooed. “Well, isn’t that strange.”

“Then how can he see us?” Mickey demanded. “How can he see through the veil?”

“That’s not really our problem. It’s not our job to ask why. Our _job_ is to reap souls, and not only have you failed in completing that job, but you continue to interfere. _No one_ interferes with my job.”

Mickey found himself wishing he were back home, hefting the Milkovich family baseball bat right about then. He would have loved to take a swing at the smug asshole’s face. “I don’t give a fuck,” he sneered instead, balling his fists. “You’re not touching him.”

Nichols brought a hand up and opened the button of his suit to allow himself to move more freely. It seemed he was just as willing to fight as Mickey was, except that he had about 8 inches and fifty pounds over Mickey.

“Mickey,” Ian started again, but Mickey shook his head at Ian one more time. Mickey knew he wanted to help, to not have someone else fight his battles for him. He’d seen firsthand that Ian had the skills he needed to win, if it came down to an actual confrontation, but Mickey didn’t want Ian getting any closer to Nichols than necessary. He wasn’t worried about taking the asshole on alone, because although Mickey may not have been a big guy, he had been fighting all his life and he knew how to use his small size to his advantage.

Mickey didn’t wait for Nichols to give him the green light; he lunged forward, low and to the left, distracting the other reaper and causing him to turn to his side to react, then kicked at the back of his knee from the opposite side, sending him falling forward. No one said he had to fight fair, and Mickey flashed the other reaper a grin of his own.

They went back and forth for a while, both deftly blocking the other, until Nichols got in a punch to Mickey’s side. Mickey was able to redirect the force behind the blow and return with a couple of jabs of his own, but it was hard to make any headway when the person he was fighting couldn’t be hurt.

Nichols surprised him by kicking Mickey in the chest so hard that he flew backwards, falling onto the coffee table in front of Ian. The table collapsed while Ian scurried to move into the corner of the room, beside the TV. Mickey got up and grabbed the closest thing he could find to him, which happened to be the lamp, and hit Nichols with it right upside the head. The glass base shattered, leaving small shards in the reaper’s face. He brushed them off easily.

Mickey realized that his only chance at winning this fight was to get his opponent’s ring off. He looked around the apartment until he spotted what he needed. Mickey maneuvered himself until he had his back to the kitchen, inching towards the counter until he was close enough that he could grab the dirty knife off of their used plates.

He kept it hidden behind him, not wanting to risk Nichols catching on. He needed to distract him, get him to stop thinking. “What, it’s not so easy to deal with me when I fight back?” Mickey taunted. “When I know who and what you are?”

Nichols sneered, but Mickey took at more as a sign that what he was doing was working. “You’d much rather I be ignorant and think you’re just some random fucking asshole who can’t see where the fuck he’s walking, instead of actually having a chance to fight for myself?”

He could see the moment Nichols snapped, because his face twisted into something ugly, scar by his eye darkening, and the reaper lunged at him. Mickey waited until the last possible moment, for Nichols to be so close that he’d think he was actually going to catch Mickey, then took a quick step to the side and dodged him. Mickey delivered a loud smack to his back as the other reaper moved past him, using Nichols’ own momentum to push him further along.

Mickey didn’t waste any time; he ran forward and jumped onto Nichols’ back, the weight and force of Mickey on top of him, coupled with his lack of footing sending Nichols careening to the floor behind the couch. Taking a page from Jakov’s playbook, Mickey leaned away while sitting on top of Nichols and brought a foot forward to rest on Nichols’ wrist, grabbed the reaper’s hand, then sliced his finger clean off. The resulting scream and stream of blood spraying on the floor beside him were enough to make both Mickey _and_ Ian squirm.

Mickey quickly removed the ring and let the dead finger fall to the ground, only slightly queasy at the sight of it being enveloped by the red, growing stain around Nichols’ hand.

“Looks like you’re not as tough as you think you are,” he murmured into the man’s ear. He sat up but kept his weight firmly on Nichols, making sure he couldn’t get up.

“I bet you’re more open to talking now, huh?”

He looked up over the couch to see Ian inching closer to them. “So his ring is the same as yours?” he asked carefully.

Mickey nodded.

“I can feel it,” Ian said, coming around the couch to stand a few feet away from the men on the floor. “I can feel the energy from it.” Ian looked compelled to touch the ring, which made Mickey feel beyond nervous at his proximity to it.

Mickey chewed on his bottom lip and nodded. Just having Ian be in the same room as the ring was enough to make him want to throw it out the window, but it was their only bargaining chip. That stupid fact, plus Mrs. Davis’ speech about not killing anyone, stopped him from disposing of the ring. Mickey didn’t want to break _every_ rule the Company had given him… only the ones he _had_ to break to keep Ian alive.

“How about we make a deal, fuckface?” Mickey said, leaning forward again and putting more pressure on Nichols’ wrist with his heel. “I give you this back,” he offered, holding the red ring so that he could see it, “and you get the fuck out of here.”

It would buy them some time, at least. Nichols tried to answer, but his voice was muffled against the floor. “What’s that, asshole?” he teased.

Mickey eased off of him by a fraction, letting the man speak again. “Fine,” he croaked out. Mickey got off of him and went to the door. He threw it wide open, went to the stairs and tossed the ring down.

“Go ahead,” he said to Nichols. “It’s all yours.”

The reaper got up, grabbed his finger, and limped over to the door, body finally showing the effects of a fight. He stopped just outside Mickey’s apartment and stared at them with wide, crazy eyes. “This won’t go unnoticed. I’ll have to report it to the Head office and they’ll send more than one reaper next time.” He didn’t wait for a reply, rushing out of the room.

Mickey slammed the door shut behind him.

“What’s the Head Office?” Ian asked in the silence that followed.

Mickey looked at him and rolled his eyes. “Again with the twenty fucking questions?”

Ian pursed his lips and Mickey knew he’d probably have to explain it to him sooner rather than later, but he shut his mouth for the time being, so that was a plus.

Mickey knew his apartment wasn’t safe anymore. It was too easy for them to be found, and he didn’t think he would be able to handle more than one reaper at a time if what Nichols said held true. He had to come up with a new plan, and the only thing that came to mind was that he had to keep Ian off the radar, constantly moving, hoping it would keep the reapers from getting to him as easily. That meant leaving the apartment and going on the run.

Mickey went into his room and grabbed a duffel bag from underneath the bed. He’d bought it with the intention of going to the gym a few months ago, but had never gotten around to signing up. He patted at it, sending little billows of dust up around it, then laid it on the bed and started filling it up with the essentials.

“Grab my toothbrush from the shower?” Mickey asked Ian, who nodded and ran to help. “And don’t forget Prick,” he called out after him, seeing that he’d already made a beeline towards the bathroom.

Ian came back and tossed the toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste into Mickey’s bag. “What the hell is ‘prick’?” Ian asked.

“Not what,” Mickey corrected. “Who,” he said unabashed, raising a finger and pointing out the door and into the kitchen, at the small cactus Ian had given him.

Ian just stared at him, blinking. “You named the cactus ‘Prick’?”

“Shut up and find a box for him,” Mickey muttered.

“Aww,” Ian said, visibly fighting a grin from spreading across his cheeks. “That’s actually a pretty clever name. It’s so fitting,” he agreed with a nod.

“I named it after you, ‘cause you’re a fucking prick,” Mickey growled, shoving some boxers into the bag.

Ian ignored him and went to the closet to find an empty shoebox. “Sure you did…”

He put the plant and his cell phone charger in with clean pants and socks, finished packing and followed Ian to the hall. Mickey took one last look at the crime scene that was his apartment before he shut the door behind him, not even bothering to lock it.

* * *

They took the stairs up to the train platform two at a time, deciding to ride around on the loop as long as they could before the bum patrol kicked them off. Mickey felt a bit awkward as he sat beside Ian; it was like he didn’t really know what to say. It was clear that neither one of them wanted to talk about what had happened with Nichols, and Mickey was a bit embarrassed by the way he’d savagely fought the guy.

“What’s the Head Office?” Ian finally asked, timidly looking up at Mickey through his lashes.

Mickey could tell he wasn’t expecting him to answer by the way his eyes widened when he started talking. “I’m not a hundred percent sure,” he admitted, pressing his lips together. “Some of the managers mention it, and I get the impression that they’re the bosses. They’re the ones who decide who gets put onto our lists…”

Ian nodded. “So they play God?”

Mickey shrugged, because he honestly still didn’t know if they had any connection with God, or if God even existed.

“You don’t know who you work for?” Ian pressed.

Mickey shrugged again. “I should have been dead, but instead, I got a second chance at life, man. I wasn’t really gonna fuck that up by asking the wrong questions.” He didn’t go into the fact that that very thing had just happened to him the previous week.

“But who-” Ian began, but didn’t get to finish his question because the train suddenly came to a loud, screeching halt.

Mickey worried his bottom lip as he watched the other people in their car start panicking. Ian flashed him a grave, knowing look, and Mickey could see the guilt creeping into his features. An announcement was made over the speaker system, barely audible through the static, but Mickey caught the words “engine failure” and “delays”. Frankly, he was surprised they’d gotten the few accident-free hours they had.

* * *

No one had gotten hurt from the incident on the train, even though it took the emergency crew over half an hour to get the thing moving again. Ian and Mickey got off at the next station, and saw that they were somewhere inside the theater district once they got down to the street level.

He knew they’d need more cash, and Mickey couldn’t exactly go to an ATM since his only account was the one the Company had given him and was sure they’d be monitoring the activity on his credit card. He enlisted Ian to help him distract people on the street while he picked a couple of pockets, then they found a small sandwich shop and got lunch, eating in silence. Mickey kept pushing down the compulsion to apologize to Ian, for keeping so much from his, but he also knew that it hadn’t been up to him.

A short while later, as they were crossing the street when Mickey saw a car burn the light and head straight for Ian. He grabbed Ian’s arm and yanked him back so violently that he collided into him, sending them both to the ground. The car passed by Ian so closely that it still ended up clipping his hoodie before crashing into the fire hydrant a few yards ahead them, on the side of the curb they were crossing to.

Water erupted out of the hydrant like a volcano, and people walking nearby rushed towards the car, to see if the driver was alright. Mickey’s stomach fell when he saw a suited man with dark sunglasses quietly emerge from the back seat. They made eye contact for a few seconds, until Mickey’s attention was drawn away by Ian, who had wrapped a hand around his wrist and was tightening his grip.

“Is he…?” Ian asked, watching as the golden aura of the driver slowly rose out of the car.

Mickey nodded.

“So this was another accident meant for me?” Ian wondered.

Mickey wasn’t sure, but the odds certainly did seem that way. When Mickey looked back to the car, the reaper was gone.

“Shit,” he muttered, looking around in a futile attempt to spot him again. He didn’t feel comfortable being out in the open with Ian, especially knowing a reaper was in the vicinity.

He got up from the ground and pulled Ian up too, then they made a run for the end of the block, where Mickey was able to hail them a cab.

* * *

Mickey hoped that leaving Chicago would buy them some more time by switching up which headquarters got Ian’s name on their reapers’ lists. He’d had their cab driver drop them off at the Greyhound terminal and had gotten onto the first bus heading out of the city, which happened to be heading to St. Louis.

The only problem was that they had barely passed Chicago Heights when the bus got a flat and had to pull over to the side of the highway.

“A flat tire isn’t the end of the world,” Ian reasoned. “I mean, in terms of accidents, that seems pretty low on the catastrophe scale.” Mickey watched the driver walk out from the bus, but frowned when he saw the chubby man bending down to examine the tire instead of calling for help. “Don’t you think?” Ian said, waiting for Mickey to agree.

“Something’s not right,” Mickey whispered.

Ian turned to look out of the window, alarmed by Mickey’s reaction. “Do you see more-” he paused, and Mickey realized he was considering his words and the fact that they were in such close proximity to the other passengers on the bus, then lowered his voice and said, “ _agents_?”

“No, but…” His voice trailed, and he wasn’t sure how to explain that he had a feeling that something felt off. “It’s just… What the hell is he doing? Why isn’t he calling for help? He should be waiting for someone else to come and fix the fucking tire, right?”

Ian leaned over Mickey and peered out, frowning at something in the distance. “Mickey…” he said, tapping Mickey’s arm. “Look.” He pointed ahead of them, at a car that had pulled off to the shoulder just ahead of them. Two men got out and began walking towards the bus, and they did _not_ look like they were mechanics. They looked just like Mickey, and Nichols, and every other reaper they’d seen in the last two days.

“We have to do something,” Ian said. Mickey scowled at Ian, but he didn’t seem to notice. “We have to stop them. This guy’s about to get hurt because-”

“He’s about to _die_ ,” Mickey told him bluntly.

Ian swallowed. “He’s about to die because of _me._ Because I’m here, on this fucking bus. We have to help…”

“The only thing we have to do is get the fuck out of here,” Mickey told him, but he could tell from the way Ian had set his jaw that he wasn’t going to give up.

Mickey sighed slowly, thinking about his options. “Stay on the bus,” he finally ordered, then plopped his duffel bag onto Ian’s lap in a pathetic attempt to make sure he stayed put.

He stood and stepped over Ian, then moved down the aisle to the front of the bus. The two reapers moving towards them had only gotten to the halfway point between the bus and their vehicle by the time Mickey made it down the stairs and out the door. He didn’t recognize either of them, but wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad thing.

He approached the reapers, a man and a woman as far as he could tell, and held up his hands to signal to them that he could see them. They stopped about a yard in front of him, close enough to be heard over the sound of the highway, but still relatively out of reach.

“You need to stop this, Mr. Miller,” the woman with the dark skin and black hair told him. He could see her perfectly shaped eyebrows rise over her sunglasses as she looked at him expectantly.

“That’s not gonna fucking happen,” he spat.

The man next to her seemed amused. “To what end, Mr. Miller? The boy must be reaped. It is inevitable.”

Mickey sneered at him. “If you know so god-damned much about me, then you should know what happened to the last guy who tried to stop me.” He saw the smile slip from the man’s face, so he continued. “Your buddy, good ol’ Nichols,” he egged. “How’s he doin’?”

The woman turned to the side and spoke in a hushed whisper to the man, and he knew from the way the other man was frowning that he wasn’t on board with whatever she was telling him.

“You let us take the three others on our lists, and we will let you and your pet leave,” the man offered.

“The fuck did you call him?” Mickey growled, taking a threatening step towards them, fist clenched.

The woman remained calm and put a hand on her partner’s arm to make sure he wouldn’t start anything physical.

“What do you mean, ‘the three others’? How’s one stupid bus driver going to cause three deaths?”

The woman pursed her lips and Mickey could see the hint of a shrug. Not knowing how their marks would ultimately die was one of the most interesting parts of a reaper’s job. For all Mickey knew, the fucker would try to change the tire himself and manage to blow the whole damned engine up.

Mickey crossed his arms. “One,” he said firmly. “Just the fat idiot,” he told them, pointing at the bus driver over his shoulder with his thumb.

“Fuck this asshole,” the man growled to his partner. “He’s lucky that _his_ name isn’t one of them.”

“Easy, Edwards,” the woman said, then turned to look at Mickey again. “ _Two_ ,” she insisted, and Mickey could tell from her tone that she was done bargaining.

“Two and you let Gallagher and I walk away?” he asked, making sure they had an understanding.

The woman nodded, and Mickey immediately reached for his phone to type out a quick message to Ian.

_get off the bus. we’re leaving._

Satisfied with the deal, he sent the message and waited for Ian. He ran through the possibilities of what they could do next, not happy with their limited options. Ian eventually came to stand beside him, bag hung over his shoulder.

“Let’s go,” Mickey told him.

Ian looked back at the bus with a pained expression. “What about-”

“ _Ian_ ,” Mickey groaned. “We’ll talk about it later,” Mickey said, almost pleading. Ian reluctantly turned back to him, face grim. Mickey knew he was getting tired of always being told to wait for an explanation, but was grateful that they didn’t fight about it then.

They started walking on the side of the highway, in the same direction they’d been heading on the bus.

“They’re still going to kill him?” Ian asked, voice low.

“We don’t kill anyone…” Mickey corrected. “We mark them. We let their souls leave their bodies. It’s not the same thing.” He knew he sounded defensive, but there _was_ a difference, at least in his mind.

Ian didn’t seem to care about the semantics. “But you didn’t stop them,” he accused.

“I convinced them to only take two. It’s something,” he explained with a shrug, hoping Ian would see that saving his life _plus_ a stranger’s without having to fight anyone again was actually a pretty good outcome in Mickey’s mind.

Ian shook his head. “But those two people are still going to die because of me…”

“People die, Ian,” he huffed. “Can’t you just be grateful that we didn’t have to fight them?”

Ian was quiet again. Mickey looked over his shoulder and saw the woman board the bus, while the other reaper walked to the fat driver who was still working on the bus’ tire. When he was sure they were both distracted, Mickey motioned for Ian to follow him to the side of their car.

Mickey opened the door and quickly tore the plastic cover off of the steering column. Once the panel was gone, he saw a roil of electrical wires, He pulled aside the battery, ignition and starter wire bundle. Using his fingernail, he stripped the ends off of the battery wires and twisted them together. He did the same thing for the ignition wire and battery wires, feeling relieved when the dash light went on. He was almost done.

He carefully sparked the starter wire to the connected battery wires. The engine came to life and Mickey revved it to make sure it wouldn’t stall two seconds later. He nodded for Ian to jump in, then broke the steering lock and spend off the shoulder and down the highway.

Mickey glanced in the rearview mirror and saw the male reaper running after them, angrily waving his fist in the air. He couldn’t help but let out a happy laugh from the thrill of it all, and how ridiculous the reaper looked. Something was _finally_ working out in their favor.

“I didn’t know you could do that!” Ian said, grinning, excitement reaching his eyes.

“I’m a little rusty,” Mickey admitted, not wanting to boast. It had taken him longer than usual since the car was a newer model and he’d been out of practice, though the rush he got from it hadn’t changed at all.

* * *

“They keep finding us at every turn,” Ian said a bit later, once the high had faded. “And the accidents are getting worse. More people are getting hurt…”

“Since when are you the negative one?” Mickey wondered. He signalled left and took the exit for the highway that would continue to take them south, further out of Chicago. Ian had always struck him as the optimistic type.

Ian made a face. “How the fuck do they keep finding us?”

“It’s the rings,” Mickey told him. “They’re drawn to you, to all the reapers’ marks. It doesn’t matter where we go. That’s why I’m hoping that leaving the area will help slow them down, throw them off. If I don’t use my credit card or anything like that, they might not know where we are right away. It’s the only thing I can think of that might work…”

“Okay,” Ian said with a nod. He reached a hand out and covered Mickey’s with it. “Then I guess we’re leaving Chicago.” Ian squeezed his hand, and Mickey looked up at him, saw the faith in him that Ian had, and gunned it even faster before anything else could go wrong.

* * *

They drove through Illinois, going south on the I-57 until the gas light came on. “What the hell?” Mickey asked, staring at the light. “Didn’t we just stop for gas half an hour ago?”

They pulled over and were horrified to find that the fuel tank was leaking, leaving a trail of gas in their wake.

Ian bit his lip. “Is this because of-”

“Don’t,” Mickey said, cutting him off. “Don’t even say it.” All they needed was for him to make a comment about the accidents and jinx them even worse.

It was already dark and they were nowhere near any large cities, so they drove a couple more miles until they found a cheap bar in some podunk town. Mickey challenged a pair of drunk idiots who were stupid enough to take him on in a game of pool and scammed them out of enough money to pay for a room at the motel across the street.

“Wow, I had no idea I was getting involved with such a fuckin’ gangster,” Ian teased as they walked to their room.

“I’m not a fucking gangster,” Mickey scoffed.

“Alright, alright. Maybe ‘gangster’ isn’t accurate. More like ‘thug’,” Ian said.

“Thug?” Mickey laughed. He unlocked the door.

“Yeah. Don’t get me wrong. I’m impressed,” Ian told him, walking into the room. Mickey closed the door behind him and flicked the lights on. The room was lit for all of a second before small sparks flew from the switch. He realized his finger was stuck to the switch and he couldn’t pull it away. Even though Mickey felt his muscles being shaken out of control, he didn’t actually _feel_ any pain. A few seconds passed before Ian knocked into him, using his whole body to get Mickey away from the switch.

Mickey lay on the ground and stared at the small burn on his finger, at the point of contact, and watched as the burn vanished instantly, leaving black soot as the only evidence of it ever existing in the first place.

“Are you okay?” Ian shouted, face twisting with worry.

“I’m fine,” Mickey told him. He pushed himself up off the ground.

“But you just got electrocuted!”

Mickey shrugged. “Didn’t hurt,” he said, exaggeratedly showing off his ring.

Ian stood up and used the flashlight on his phone to find the bed. Mickey followed the light and dropped the duffel bag at the foot of the bed before sitting down beside Ian. He suddenly felt at a loss for what to say.

“So, umm… before… in your apartment, when you said you cared about me too much to kill me…” Ian began.

“ _Reap_ you,” Mickey corrected again, making sure Ian understood that he didn’t _kill_ anyone.

“Whatever,” Ian muttered, and from his tone Mickey could tell he was rolling his eyes at him. “Did you mean it?”

“Mean what?” Mickey asked, thinking back to that night. It had been less than two days ago, but felt like an eternity had passed since he’d come clean to Ian.

“About caring about me, asshole,” Ian said, not-so-lightly punching Mickey’s arm.

Mickey rubbed at his arm to humor Ian, even though it didn’t hurt. “Why you busting my balls, man?”

“Just wondering if that means we're together again…” he carefully asked.

“Of course we are,” Mickey scoffed. He didn’t understand how Ian could ever think for a second that everything they’d been through didn’t matter anymore because of one stupid thing that he’d done, all with the intention of protecting him.

“But what about-”

Mickey didn’t let him finish, catching Ian’s lips with his own and kissing him deeply, trying to prove to him just how much he really _did_ care.

* * *

Even though Ian was asleep, Mickey found it impossible to close his eyes. He couldn’t risk letting his guard down in case another reaper happened to show up. His mind was racing, trying to figure out what their next move could be, but he felt like they were out of options.

 

He carefully got out of bed and got his phone out of his pocket before going to the bathroom, leaving the door ajar so the click of the lock wouldn’t make too much noise. He finally decided to get in touch with Eric and do some reconnaissance.

“I need your help, man,” Mickey told him once Eric had answered, keeping his voice low enough to not wake Ian.

“You’re the one they’re talking about, aren’t you?” Eric accused, sounding surprised that Mickey would even call him. “The one who went rogue. Off the reservation.”

Mickey cleared his throat. “I guess so,” he said. It was strange to hear it put like that, like he had lost his mind or something, when, for the first time in a long time, he actually felt like he was doing the right thing. “If you could have done something so save your wife, wouldn’t you have done it in a heartbeat?”

Eric was quiet for a while before finally sighing in defeat. “What do you need from me?”

It was a good question, because it wasn’t like one newbie reaper could help him get out of the mess he was in, but he _had_ called Eric for a reason. “Look,” Mickey began, “I have a feeling something’s up. I wasn’t sure before… I mean, I suspected it, but when I talked to Mr. Smith about it… Anyway, I tried to come up with a rational explanation for the weird coincidences, but now I’m sure that Ian can see through our veils. He _saw_ the other reapers that came after him, and he can definitely see souls rising after people die, but Mr. Nichols said he isn’t destined to be a reaper. I don’t know if he was just lying, or if he actually knows because he’s weekend shift, but I can’t let them get to Ian until I know more. Until I know the truth. Can you talk to Mrs. Davis? See if you can find out anything?”

“Alright, bro. I’ll see what I can do,” Eric agreed. After a beat, he said, “Your friend-”

“Boyfriend,” Mickey corrected, eyes flicking to the opening in the door, to where he could barely make out Ian sleeping on the bed through the dark.

“Your boyfriend,” he amended, “is one lucky guy.”

Mickey laughed at the irony of that, since Ian was anything but lucky at the moment. “Shut the fuck up, man,” he muttered before hanging up.

Mickey carefully crawled back into the bed a minute later. He turned to his side and shifted back on the mattress, moving closer to Ian, until Ian lifted a hand up and instinctively wrapped it around Mickey’s waist. He groggily pulled him closer and placed a tender kiss on Mickey’s head while muttering something about being cold without him. Mickey closed his eyes while thinking he couldn’t agree more.

* * *

He hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but Mickey had clearly been so exhausted from the previous days’ events that he had unwillingly done exactly that. It hadn’t helped that he felt at home in Ian’s arms, even though they were quite literally hundreds of miles from home.

Mickey’s eyes flew open when he felt a sharp sting in his hand. His heart sank as he brought his hand up to see that his ring was pulsating with energy again.

“Mmm, hi,” Ian said, voice coarse with sleep. Mickey could feel him smile into the crook of his neck.

He bolted upright, making sure to keep his throbbing hand as far away from Ian as he could.

Mickey watched Ian’s beautiful smile slip away as he undoubtedly took in the twisted, pained expression on Mickey’s face. “What’s wrong?”

“My ring,” Mickey croaked, holding it back as it tried pulling him towards Ian. The force was stronger than it had been that first night, and Mickey guessed it was due to his proximity to Ian. He hadn’t picked up a list in days, so he didn’t know how or why it was activating now.

He cradled his arm to his chest and stumbled backwards until he was leaning against the bathroom door. “They must have figured out I’m the one keeping you alive.”

“Can’t you just… take it off?” Ian wondered.

Mickey gritted his teeth and shook his head. “The ring is what keeps me from getting hurt. Gives me my reaper ‘powers’ or whatever you wanna call them.”

“And if you’re near me when you’re just a regular old human, just like everyone else, you can die just like everyone else too,” Ian said, completing Mickey’s thought.

Mickey nodded. “It’s fine,” he told Ian, forcing himself to breathe deeply instead of letting the panic set in. “It’ll stop eventually,” he explained, even though he wasn’t sure it would. “I just need to hang on until then.”

* * *

They spent another hour in the motel room before Mickey decided that they had to keep moving, if only to get his mind off of the ring. They were almost out of Illinois; all they had to do was find another car and get going before other reapers arrived.

Unfortunately, the hotel parking lot wasn’t exactly bustling with cars, so they went back to the bar with the goal of finding something old enough to be hotwired. The only vehicles in sight were a new civic, a beer delivery truck and a couple of Harleys.

“Get in the truck,” Mickey told him after looking around to make sure no one was there to see them, though he doubted anyone still drinking at the bar so early the next morning would be in any condition to chase them.

He headed to the driver’s side but he saw Ian stop in front of one of the motorcycles. “Ian, what are you doing?”

Ian reached forward to pick something up, then held it in the air for Mickey to see. “They left the keys out,” Ian said in surprise, waving them so that they made a small jingling noise.

“I don’t care if there’s someone _paying_ me to take it,” Mickey said, shaking his head. “With your fucking luck, we’ll wipe out before we even make it a mile.”

“Yeah, but you’ve got the ring,” Ian reasoned. “You’ll be fine.”

“But _you_ won’t!” Mickey shot back.

Ian looked down with a sigh. “I’ll be fine if we keep moving. That’s what you said, so that’s what we’ll do.”

Mickey bit his lip. The motorcycle would definitely be fast, letting them cover a lot of ground in a lot less time, but that benefit might also kill Ian ‒ or at least, severely injure him ‒ a lot faster too.

“I bet you’ll look fucking hot driving one,” Ian offered.

“You think you’re gonna change my mind by complimenting me?” Mickey scoffed.

He looked over at Ian and saw him grin while nodding.

“See, this is why you’re a prick,” Mickey muttered, reluctantly walking over to the bike. He gave Ian a long, hard look before he put the black, matte helmet over his head. He struggled to shut the strap with his one useless hand. “Be careful not to touch the ring,” he warned.

“As if I could forget,” Ian told him, grabbing the spare helmet. “That thing hasn’t stopped giving off heat all day.”

Mickey climbed onto the motorcycle and Ian got on behind him, pushing the duffle bag around so that it was behind him. He wrapped his arms around Mickey’s waist and pressed his chest against his back.

“Fucking _hot_ ,” Ian whispered into his ear just before Mickey put the key into the ignition and the Harley revved to life.

* * *

By some miracle, they were able to drive for two hours without incident. Mickey kept checking the time, waiting for his ring to stop collecting energy, stop thrumming on his finger, stop sending waves of pain through him, relentlessly pulling him towards Ian with an undeniable _need_ that he just couldn’t fight anymore, but it never did. If anything, it got worse.

Mickey slowed the bike down and pulled over to the side of the road, just before a small bridge.

“What happened?” Ian asked once the roar of the engine had quieted enough for him to be heard. “Is something wrong with the motorcycle?”

Mickey shook his head and toed the kickstand open, then got off and walked away as quickly as he could, moving towards the bridge.

“Mickey?” Ian called, running after him.

He spun and held a hand out, warning Ian to keep his distance. Ian stopped, but that didn’t change the worry or confusion on his face. “What are you doing?” he shouted.

Mickey kept walking until he got to the bridge. There was a little creek that ran underneath it, and he leaned over the railing, staring down into the water. “I can’t fight it,” he said, just loud enough for Ian to hear him. He twisted the stupid ring on his finger. “It’s too strong…”

He looked over his shoulder and saw Ian standing a few feet back.

“But you’ll be giving up so much…” he argued.

Mickey pulled the ring off of his finger, surprised by its weight and how bulky it looked once it was in his palm, and tossed the glowing jewelry into the creek. He bit his lip as he watched it quickly sink below the surface, feeling relief wash over his body as the energy and the pull instantly disappeared along with the ring. He _was_ giving up a lot, but he didn’t tell Ian that he was worth all of it and more.

* * *

They’d stopped at a gas station to fuel up and buy some snacks when Eric called Mickey back.

“What’d you find out?” Mickey asked him, taking a desperate puff of the cigarette he was eagerly sucking down. Even though he was more than fifty feet from the nearest fuel pump, he was still rushing to finish it as quickly as possible, not trusting Ian’s luck. He’d missed the comfort that smoking cigarettes had given him, missed the taste of the nicotine and the familiar feeling of the smoke burning inside his lungs.

“I couldn’t get anything out of Mrs. Davis besides the fact that Ian Gallagher is supposed to die,” Eric said.

Mickey’s gut sank at hearing Eric’s words. “She said that?”

“Basically,” Eric confirmed. “She threw around the word ‘soulmate’ but said that it didn’t matter if he was yours… He still has to die.”

Mickey swallowed hard, feeling a lump form in his throat. He crushed the cigarette butt against the siding of the small convenience store, waiting for Eric to continue.

“Apparently there’s a frenzy in the Head Office right now to figure out how a mistake like that was made again, because she said that Ian’s name should have never ended up on _your_ list.”

He felt his ears perk up. “Wait, repeat that,” Mickey ordered.

“What?” Eric asked.

“You said they’re trying to figure out how a mistake like that was made _again_. What do you mean by ‘again’? What did she say, _exactly_?”

“She just said it was a mistake to make you reap your own soulmate…” Eric explained. “That they learned from the last time this happened that-”

“Last time?” Mickey asked urgently, pressing the phone harder against his ear to make sure he heard clearly. “Who was the one who had to reap their soulmate last time?”

There were a few seconds of silence during which Mickey’s heart was pounding in his chest so hard that he thought it might fucking explode before Eric told him the name of the reaper he least expected to hear: “Mr. Smith.”


	11. The Final Countdown

“Who was that?” Ian asked when he came back to the bike with some snacks.

Mickey had just finished filling the tank up without any accidents, to his relief. He’d half expected the whole gas station to blow up, but had tried his best to keep the worry off his face when Ian was around.

“A friend from work,” Mickey answered distractedly. He was still trying to piece together the information he’d gotten from Eric, but wasn’t having much luck.

He looked at Ian and could tell that he was nervous. “It’s fine,” Mickey placatingly told him. “I asked him to see if he could find out anything. He didn’t learn much, but I think I know who I need to talk to next,” Mickey explained.

Ian bit his lip. “So we’re going back?”

Mickey nodded, albeit reluctantly. “I don’t think we’re gonna be able to keep running like this… especially not when the accidents are getting worse, not to mention the fact that I don’t have my ring anymore.”

* * *

Six hours, two accidents, a few bruises, a broken wrist, a possibly cracked rib and three automobile changes later, they finally made it back to Chicago. Instead of heading straight downtown, Mickey made a pit stop in Canaryville.

“What are we doing here?” Ian wondered, brows furrowed as he stared out of the window of the nearly wrecked Buick they’d stolen.

“You can’t go home and you can’t go into the lion’s den with me, so this is the only other option I can think of,” Mickey told him, nodding his head towards his old house. “I texted Eric the address and he’s gonna be here soon. He’ll help keep you safe for as long as he can.”

Ian didn’t look happy about the news that he was being kicked out of the car, but Mickey couldn’t tell whether it was because he was offended about being dumped off somewhere, or at the idea of being separated from him.

“What about Mandy? Aren’t you afraid she’ll get hurt because of me?” Ian wondered, cradling the makeshift cast around his wrist.

“My sister can take care of herself,” Mickey said with a grim smile. “Just make sure you don’t tell her anything that’ll make you think you’re nuts,” he warned.

Ian laughed incredulously. “Oh, you mean like _anything remotely close to being true_?”

“Exactly,” Mickey told him. “Stay out of sight, stay away from doors, windows, sharp objects, electronics… basically don’t move.”

Ian rolled his eyes at him, but the way he was fidgeting with the strap of the duffel bag gave his real emotions away. “How long?” he asked in a quiet voice, looking up at Mickey gravely.

Mickey felt a pang of guilt, because even though he had no idea what would happen when he got to the Company’s office, he was pretty sure he wouldn’t be leaving there alive. He reached his hand out ‒ for his comfort or for Ian’s, he didn’t really know ‒ and Ian quickly placed his uninjured one into it, fingers intertwining like they were love-sick teenagers.

“I just need to figure some stuff out. I need to talk to my boss, get some more information, and I’ll come back for you as soon as I can,” Mickey assured him, hoping his lie sounded more convincing to Ian than it did to his own ears.

Ian squeezed Mickey’s hand and leaned towards him in his seat, resting his forehead against Mickey’s. “Don’t do anything stupid,” Ian warned him. “I want you back in one piece.”

Mickey was the one to roll his eyes this time. “Says the fucking death magnet,” he muttered, teasing Ian, who shoved at him in retaliation. “Ow,” Mickey winced from the sharp, stabbing pain in his chest. He’d almost forgotten what if felt like to be injured, and was ninety percent sure he’d broken a couple of ribs from the air bag's deployment in their most recent crash on the drive back.

“That’s what you fuckin’ get.” Ian leaned forward again and gave Mickey a slow and deep kiss, as if they had all the time in the world, as if they weren’t being chased by all the grim reapers in Chicago, as if there was nothing else going on around them.

Ian eventually pulled back. “I…” he began, then shut his mouth, changing his mind.

Mickey swallowed hard. He could still feel Ian’s lips against his and taste him on his tongue. He knew exactly what Ian had wanted to say, because he’d been thinking it too.

He gave Ian a curt nod. “Me too,” he whispered, wishing it sounded less like a goodbye.

* * *

It was late afternoon when Mickey finally ditched their stolen car and walked up to the Waterworks building without any kind of a plan. He’d gone through a pack of cigarettes since the morning but his nerves were still uneasy at the sight of the Company’s offices. With a switchblade tucked safely in his pocket in case he needed it, he opened the door and headed straight to the elevator when someone blocked his way at the last second. Without any time to react, Mickey walked right into the security guard’s outstretched arm.

“What the fuck, man?”

Ramirez, the same heavy-set guard on duty every morning when Mickey went to work, who would always let him pass without so much as a second glance, now moved to stand right between Mickey and where he needed to be. He crossed his arms over his chest exactly the same exact way he had that first time Mickey had followed Mr. Smith into the building, and the déjà vu feeling Mickey got from seeing it gave him chills.

Mickey chewed on his lip out of frustration, remembering how he’d been ready to clock the son of a bitch until Mr. Smith had told him to just put his ring on. The problem was that Mickey didn’t have that option this time, nor did he have time to come up with a better plan. He’d thought ahead enough to bring a weapon along, but he didn’t think the guard deserved to get unnecessarily hurt just because of his poor choice in employer. Mickey pulled his arm back, fist clenched, and slammed it into the side of the Ramirez’s face, just under his right eye. Ramirez’s head whipped to the side from the force of Mickey’s punch, and he staggered backwards.

Mickey shook his hand and exhaled, shaking out the pain in his knuckles from where they’d connected with bone. Ramirez hit the wall behind him and slid to the ground, leaving the path to the elevator clear, but before Mickey could head past him, he was overtaken by another guard who jumped him from behind, bringing him to his knees.

They grappled, Mickey fighting to throw the guard from his shoulders, but his broken rib was making any kind of proper movement impossible. He couldn’t get his hands free long enough to reach for the knife in his pocket, so neither he nor the second guard were able to gain the upper hand. Mickey heard the distinct click of someone’s safety being taken off ‒ a sound he was more than familiar with, growing up as a Milkovich ‒ and he froze, slowly releasing his hold of the guard’s uniform collar. He looked up and over his shoulder to see Ramirez standing over them, cheek bloody and eye already starting to swell shut, holding his gun aimed at Mickey.

Mickey raised his hands up into the air and slowly rose, careful to not make any sudden movements. “Don’t move,” Ramirez grumbled, following Mickey with the gun, making sure it was trained on him.

“There’s no reason to get all huffy,” Mickey said, attempting to buy himself some time to better assess the situation. He could probably spin on Ramirez and grab the gun from him before the guy even realized what was happening, but with the safety already off and a possible head injury to cloud his judgment, Mickey didn’t feel as confident in his security-guards-don’t-actually-shoot-you theory. Additionally, even if he could disarm Ramirez, there was no way to be sure the other guard on the floor wouldn’t draw his weapon next. The whole idea of forcing his way into the building seemed completely ridiculous in hindsight, because Mickey had also forgotten to consider the fact that he wouldn’t even be able to control the elevator without his ring.

“Look, I’m really sorry about the eye,” Mickey said as inched closer to Ramirez.

“I said don’t move,” he practically shouted, and Mickey stopped moving immediately. He watched as the guard sidestepped back to his station and pressed a red button on the wall that Mickey had never noticed. Mickey half expected an alarm to start blaring, but the button only lit up. He worried his lip as he waited for whatever would happen next. In the meantime, the guard who’d tackled him got up and moved to his other side, hand at the ready, resting on his sidearm, but to Mickey’s relief, he left the gun in its holster.

It felt like an had eternity passed before the elevator dinged behind him. Mickey turned his head to see who was there and the doors slid open to reveal the person he _least_ wanted to see right then: Mr. Nichols. The reaper walked out with a smug smile on his face, and Mickey felt his heart sink.

Nichols walked over to the guards and spoke with them in such a low voice that Mickey couldn’t make out any of it, even though he was only standing ten feet away. Ramirez nodded to Nichols and holstered his weapon, then walked away, just like that, going through a door at the end of the hall labeled with “authorized personnel only” signs. The other guard immediately took his place at Ramirez’s former station.

Mickey nervously looked at the exit behind him, but Nichols shook his head, motioning to the elevator he’d just come out of. Mickey swallowed and followed him, bracing himself for the attack that would undoubtedly come from Nichols now that _he_ was the one with a ring while _Mickey_ was the defenseless one. He debated taking his knife out but thought better of it, feeling slightly guilty for what he’d done to the guy earlier that weekend.

Nichols held his ring up to the LED screen until the red star showed up. Mickey noted that his hand seemed intact again. In fact, if he hadn’t been the one to mutilate Nichols in the first place, he wouldn’t have believed it, given the lack of any kind of scar.

“Looks like there wasn’t any permanent damage,” Mickey said sheepishly, immediately regretting it when Nichols delivered a punch right into his gut. Mickey doubled over in pain, arms wrapping around his abdomen, as he tried to regain his breath and fought the urge to vomit. If his ribs weren’t broken before, he was sure they were now.

Nichols walked out of the elevator without sparing another glance at Mickey. He led him to the same office he’d sat in during the week of paperwork hell and left him there to stew. To Mickey’s surprise, it was Mr. Smith and not Mrs. Davis who met him inside the room next.

“Mr. Miller,” the old man said, taking the seat across the table from Mickey. “I can tell you, I honestly did _not_ expect to see you back here so soon.”

Mickey glared at him. He was sick and tired of having to make inferences and assumptions based on the tidbits Mr. Smith decided to share with him. Did he think Mickey hadn’t tried hard enough to save Ian? Because the way he said “so soon” implied that he _had_ expected Mickey to eventually return, and that didn’t make any sense.

“Why don’t you cut the crap?” Mickey spat.

Mr. Smith raised his eyebrow above his fucking sunglasses again and Mickey felt the anger inside him finally bubble over the edge. He shot up out of his seat, pressing his palms flat against the table and letting it brace his weight as he leaned forward to talk to Mr. Smith.

“You heard what I did to Nichols, didn’t you?” he said slowly, making sure his boss heard the intent behind his words. “You think I can’t do the same to you?”

The knife was burning a hole in his pocket and he itched to pull it out and show Mr. Smith exactly what he was willing to do to finally get some answers.

“If you sit down,” Mr. Smith began, calmly motioning towards the seat with a calm tilt of his head, “I’ll tell you about my wife before Mrs. Davis has a chance to interrupt us,” he offered.

Mickey hesitated, eyes flicking from Mr. Smith’s blank face to the chair and back to the unreadable expression behind the sunglasses. He pressed his lips together, considering his options, then finally decided to take a seat.

“It was January of 1974. Lauretta and I had been married for ten years when I died. Plain, old heart failure,” he explained. “We had two girls, Elizabeth, who was six, and Ruby, who was only two when I passed.”

He took his sunglasses off and laid them down onto the table. “I couldn’t bear to leave them, as if I had a choice in the matter, but I saw how strong Lauretta was, taking care of two little girls all by herself, and I knew they were in good hands. I would watch them constantly, check up on them at least once a day… You see, I couldn’t stand being away from them for longer than that.”

He closed his eyes and smiled at the memory, making Mickey feel extremely uncomfortable, since he knew the story would end with the death of his wife.

“Then Lauretta’s name ended up on my list, not even five years later. The girls weren’t even teenagers yet, and the Company wanted me to take their mother from them. My Lauretta…” He shook his head. “I wouldn’t do it. I _couldn’t_. I made the same decision you did: I refused to reap her.”

He clenched his hand into a fist. “Only, I hadn’t thought ahead during my orientation, or at any time in those five years of working for the Company. I hadn’t asked any of the right questions, like what would have happened if I didn’t reap a soul on my list. If you recall, you asked me that before your first reaping,” he said to Mickey. “I didn’t know about the accidents…”

“It was the middle of winter and Lauretta was driving the girls home from school the day after her name had been on my list. The roads were icy and it was snowing. She was never a great driver to begin with, but when you factored everything else in…” he said, holding his hands out, “it was a recipe for disaster. She lost control of the car and it spun out on the road, only stopping when it hit the pole of a traffic light.”

He waited a few moments before continuing. “Lizzy and Ruby died before they even made it to the hospital, but Lauretta was still alive when I found out what had happened. She was in a coma, but the doctors were positive that she wouldn’t wake up. They said her internal injuries had been too severe. I had no choice but to reap her, to save her from being hooked up to those machines for the rest of her life. I thought at least that way, her soul would find some peace.”

“I waited to watch Lauretta’s aura rise, but it never did, so I stayed with her. No one said anything; no one even noticed me there. I followed them when they took her to the morgue, and I was there when she woke up. I told her that I was a reaper, and that she was a reaper too. No one at the Company had told me that I wouldn’t be separated from my soulmate after all. Things could have gone a lot differently if I had known it beforehand,” he explained morosely.

“My Lauretta was always a smart one. She didn’t think try to convince herself that we were ghosts, or not real, or even that she had lost her mind. She _believed_ me. But her first question, once she had accepted what I’d told her, was about the girls... and I couldn’t lie to her.”

Mr. Smith cleared his throat. “Lauretta refused to put the ring on. She kept saying it was her fault the girls had died. She was overcome with guilt. And before I could do anything to convince her otherwise, she’d grabbed the scalpel off the metal table beside her and had taken her own life.” His voice was barely a whisper by the end of the story, and Mickey was frozen in place, jaw hanging open at how terrible and unbelievable it was. If the Company had just _told_ him, everything could have played out differently.

Only, that wasn’t the case for Ian, even though he had thought of it ‒ even _hoped_ for it ‒ to be a possibility.

“But Ian isn’t going to be a reaper, is he?” he accused.

“No,” his boss said with finality in his voice. “He isn’t.”

“So if there’s nothing I can do, what’s the fucking point? Why tell me any of this?”

“You came into my office, and you asked me the questions I hadn’t thought to ask for years, not until after my wife passed away. You, Mr. Miller, have something none of the other reapers have. You aren’t just a ‘Company Man’. You think for yourself.”

Mickey squirmed in his seat at the strangely placed compliments. “I made you do all of that paperwork for a reason. Did you pay _any_ attention to what you were working on that whole week?”

The doorknob twisted open and Mr. Smith rose from his seat to greet Mrs. Davis.

“Mr. Smith? What are you doing here?” she asked, visibly surprised at seeing him in the room.

“Hello, Adeline,” Mr. Smith said casually, nodding to her. He put his sunglasses back on. “I was just asking Mr. Miller a few questions to help me complete my review of his performance over the course of the last month, with the exception of this last week, obviously,” he said with a laugh. “I’ll have the report on your desk by the end of the day. I’m sorry it had to end this way, Mr. Miller,” he said to Mickey.

With that, he walked out of the office, not giving Mrs. Davis a chance to respond or even question him further.

Mrs. Davis closed the door behind Mr. Smith. “I’m very disappointed in you, Mr. Miller,” she told Mickey, taking a seat in the chair Mr. Smith had just occupied moments earlier. “You showed such promise,” she said, shaking her head. “It truly is a shame.”

Mickey pursed his lips together, only partially listening to what she was actually saying. In actuality, he was going over the paperwork he’d spent a whole week entering into the system and filing. Thinking about the invoices, rent receipts, and endless payroll forms he’d had to go through still filled him with rage, but Mr. Smith had implied that he’d given him the job for a reason, and Mickey just had to keep Mrs. Davis talking long enough to figure out what that reason was.

“I can’t lose Ian,” he said. “He’s…”

“Your soulmate?” Mrs. Davis provided. Mickey stared at her sharply and she spared him a small smile. “I’m sorry that this had to happen to you,” she said, spreading her arms out, palms-up, “But that doesn’t excuse your behavior.”

“There has to be something I can do. I can’t just-”

“I’m afraid you have no choice in the matter, Mr. Miller. This isn’t in your hands anymore. Ian Gallagher’s fate was sealed the moment his name was put onto a list, as was yours when you decided to ignore it. I warned you in your orientation that there would be consequences for breaking the rules. In a situation like this, we would normally take your ring from you, but I see you’ve already taken care of that for us.”

“Then what?” he spat, crossing his arms over his chest. “Are you going to kill me?”

To Mickey’s surprise, Mrs. Davis laughed at him. “ _Kill_ you? Mr. Miller, just because we are in the business of reaping, does not mean we control it or take advantage of it.”

Mickey didn’t buy any of her bullshit, but he wanted to keep her talking on the off chance that she actually gave him information that was useful to saving Ian. In the meantime, he took his cell phone out of his pocket and sent a text to Eric, in case he didn’t get a chance to later on. “So what’s gonna happen to me?” he asked.

“We’ll hold you here until Ian Gallagher dies, just to be sure you can’t interfere again, and then you’ll be able to go about your life, to live it however you want to.” Mickey kept his face from giving away how sick to his stomach her words made him feel.

“You can even keep the apartment, as long as you pay for it yourself. You’ll have to find another job, of course,” she told him, voice condescending. How had Mickey never noticed what a bitch she was before now?

“I’ve got a better idea,” Mickey began, tilting his head to the side and flashing Mrs. Davis a menacing smile. She had no idea what she was in for…

* * *

Mickey was relieved that there was no one in the hallway when they walked out of the room. He’d half-expected Nichols to be lingering by the door, waiting to ridicule or mock him, but the path to the elevator was clear. Mickey tightened his grip on the knife he held to Mrs. Davis’ throat and nudged her forward, prompting her to get moving. They got into the elevator and he looked at her expectantly, waiting for directions. When she didn’t answer, he pressed the knife a fraction of an inch closer to her neck until she winced, a tiny droplet of blood sliding down to her collar bone. “Put the ring to the screen while pressing the door close button,” she instructed.

Mickey hesitated before taking her heavy ring out of his pocket, not sure if she was telling him the truth or not. “How do I know this isn’t a trick? That doing exactly what you tell me to do won’t set off some kind of fucking alarm?” he demanded.

“It won’t,” she breathed, and since he didn’t really have another choice, he did as she said.

Mickey had almost felt bad when he’d overtaking Mrs. Davis and removed her ring, but the look of horror on her face after she’d realized what he’d done had been priceless. Disarming her had been a lot easier than fighting Mr. Nichols had been. He eyed her carefully as he let her go for a moment to step up to the control panel in the elevator. He held up the red ring and pushed the right button. There was a beeping sound, then the screen lit up with the letters “HO”.

Mickey raised an eyebrow when he looked back at Mrs. Davis. “ _Really_?” he asked her sarcastically.

She glared at him while holding a hand up to the small nick on her neck, not amused in the slightest. “What do you think you’re going to accomplish by doing this, Mr. Miller? Our best reapers are already en route to Ian Gallagher. You can’t run from death.”

“We’ll see about that,” he muttered under his breath, waiting for the elevator to start moving. If their “best” agents were anything like Nichols, there was a still a chance, albeit a small one, that Ian could be okay if Mickey made it out of the Company alive.

He didn’t feel the elevator move at all, but a moment later, there was another ding and the doors opened to reveal a large, white room... only it wasn’t technically a room because it didn’t have any walls. Mickey peered out and saw that the space stretched out as far as the eye could see.

The space was bright, even though there were no windows or lights to illuminate it. He was overcome with a feeling of being completely blank, of emptiness, and not having a horizon line to orient himself was disconcerting, to say the least.

Mickey noticed that Mrs. Davis looked more nervous now than she had been when he’d had a knife to her throat, almost like she was scared of something. Mickey had to admit he was a little scared too. So many different thoughts were running through Mickey’s head, from the possibility of him being about to incur the wrath of some kind of deity, to being set up by Mrs. Davis. There was even the chance that he was dead already, a second time.

“This is the head office?” he whispered, though he didn’t know why he did so.

Mrs. Davis stiffly nodded, so he took a careful step out of the elevator and waited for her walk out ahead of him. He kept the knife to his side in one hand and held her ring in the other, just in case she needed the negative reinforcement again.

They’d only walked out a yard or so when the doors closed and the space the elevator had occupied was replaced with the same white nothingness in the rest of the room.

What he was not expecting to see was a conference table behind where the elevator had been, surrounded by nine suited-up men and women, all seemingly hard at work, pouring over paperwork. One of the men was reading names aloud off a large stack of paper in front of him, and the others would either all agree or all disagree in unison. Occasionally there would be one dissenting opinion, and the others would look at the person and wait for an explanation.

“What the fuck is this? The Supreme Court of who lives and who dies?” Mickey whispered again, disgusted by their routine, casual treatment of what he guessed was how the reapers’ lists were made.

He’d meant it as a rhetorical question but Mrs. Davis gave him an almost imperceptible nod.

The man was still reading the names. “Ruben Gajeski?” The people at the table nodded. “Georgina Galante?” They nodded again. “Jacqueline Galardi?” They shook their heads. “Lauren Galena?” A general murmur of agreement was heard all along the table.

“Is this really how it’s decided?” he asked, voice barely audible. Mrs. Davis nodded again. “Who the fuck are these guys? How do they know what to vote for? Is that _everyone’s_ name?”

He looked to his side and she shook her head. “Everyone in the Chicago district. They go through the list in its entirety before the start of each shift.” She looked like she wanted to crawl under a rock and hide until it was all over. Mickey marveled at how all the authority she had projected when he’d first met her had so suddenly disappeared the moment he’d taken her ring from her and told her where he wanted to go.

“Fernando Galgano?” the man continued, making notes on the paper when the rest of the group voted “nay”. “Marco Galindez?” They shook their heads again. “Emily Galindez?” More nodding.

Mickey made up his mind and strode forward, leaving a shocked and almost quivering Mrs. Davis in his wake.

“Paul Galkowski?” the man read, voice trailing at the end when he looked up and noticed Mickey walking towards the table. The others eventually looked up when another name wasn’t called.

One woman tilted her head to the side as she watched Mickey approach them. “What is the meaning of this?” she asked him.

Mickey stopped a few feet from the table, slid the knife and the ring back into his pockets, and cleared his throat. “I’m Mick-”

“Mickey Milkovich, now Miller. Yes, we know,” another man said impatiently, cutting him off. “What we don’t know is what you’re doing here.”

“Adeline Davis. Why have you brought this reaper before us?”

All heads turned to Mrs. Davis, who was standing far enough that Mickey couldn’t figure out exactly how far she was, especially with absolutely nothing to use as a frame of reference.

“He stole my ring, took me hostage and demanded to see you...” she croaked, sounding like a child whining to her parents. The group of strangers before them looked unimpressed.

Mickey rolled his eyes, then addressed the others again. “You’re trying to kill someone important to me, and I need you to stop it.”

The people around the table exchanged looks with each other. Some smiled, but most laughed, and it infuriated Mickey.

Another man, and older-looking one with short, white hair, leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest, reminding him of Ian. It was such a _human_ gesture, but these people, the so-called Head Office, seemed anything _but_ human. “Ian Gallagher must die. Nothing you do will change this.”

“That’s bullshit,” Mickey spat, receiving more laughter from all but the white-haired man who had just spoken to him. “You can just remove him from the list, call off the dogs. It’s simple.”

“Nothing is simple,” one of the women said, giving him a stern look.

But Mickey refused to believe them. He wouldn’t accept that there was nothing he could do. “I can tell the world about the Company,” he told them, then cleared his throat and added, “I can _expose_ you.”

The laughter died down, but the threat didn’t seem to bother any of them. The man who’d been reading the names off the list was the one to speak to Mickey next. “They will think you’re crazy. You have no proof.”

Only, that was where they were wrong. Mickey did have proof… He had a name. “Thanatos Corporation,” he whispered, and the room stilled. Some of the men and woman snuck sidelong glances at the white-haired man.

He hadn’t known its significance before. He had seen it a hundred times, all over the paperwork he’d filed, but hadn’t paid it any thought until Mr. Smith had pointed him in the right direction. “You know, I googled it after I saw it the third or fourth time, just outta curiosity. I’m not into Greek mythology at all, but Thanatos, ‘the demon personification of death’,” he quoted the wikipedia article he’d found, “that’s actually a fucking clever name.”

He watched them exchange worried glances with each other. “So you guys really think no one will believe me if I expose you? I mean, I’m no expert, but I’d think at least _someone_ might ask a few questions, especially if I name such a huge company, with so much cash flow… I mean, do you really want that kind of publicity?”

The white-haired man stood up. “Mr. Miller. I can admit that we have underestimated you, but let me assure you, you will _not_ be sharing this information with _anyone_.”

Mickey swallowed hard, understanding the real meaning behind what the man was saying to him. He wasn’t getting out of there alive, which was why he’d texted Eric with the name before he’d attacked Mrs. Davis. He let his lips slide into a small smile, knowing that if anything happened to him, at least someone outside of the company had the information too.

There was a soft ding from behind him again. The elevator had reappeared, and as the doors slowly slid open, Mickey’s smug smile slipped from his face. Out stepped Eric, Mr. Smith and Ian.

“You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding me…” he groaned.

On the one hand, he was relieved to see Ian alive, even though the blood stains on his hands didn’t make Mickey feel very comfortable. His mind swam with questions about what had happened and whose blood it was, but he didn’t spot any injuries on Ian. Seeing Eric, the only other person with knowledge of the leverage Mickey had over the Company, standing beside him, _inside_ the Company didn’t really bode well for Mickey’s shoddy plan.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Mickey asked them. He was annoyed, but when Ian finally stood beside him, Mickey couldn’t help hugging the shit out of him. “Are you okay?” he asked Ian more gently once he was sure he wouldn’t be overheard.

“Eric’s ring started up not long after he got to Mandy’s. Some of them came in, but we stopped them,” he explained, looking down at his dirty hands. “We thought the other reapers wouldn’t be too far behind, so we figured we’d come here and at least try to help you out.”

Mickey glared at him and then at Eric. “It’s like you’re the kid who has a peanut allergy walking into a fucking Planters’ factory. You went along with this, Hicks?” he demanded.

Eric shrugged. “He told Mandy that he _needed_ to go to my office with me, and your sister can be very persuasive when she sets her mind to something…”

“Jesus Christ,” Mickey grumbled under his breath. He finally looked at Mr. Smith. The man raised his eyebrows over his sunglasses but kept his expression innocent. Mickey guessed that Eric had probably come into the Company with Ian and had asked for help from the only person he knew he could trust after realizing he didn’t have the slightest clue where the hell Mickey was.

“This is a waste of our time,” one of the women said from her seat at the conference table.

Some of the men agreed, and Mickey heard one of them mutter something about Mickey’s request being impossible.

“Mr. Miller, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, the balance has to be kept. If you continue to defy us, continue to hide and protect Mr. Gallagher, there will be repercussions. That is the end of this discussion.” He snapped his fingers and Mickey felt the ring in his pocket come to life. He could feel it buzzing and building energy through the fabric of his pants, even though he wasn’t wearing it.

He looked up and saw that Mr. Smith and Eric were showing startled expressions on their faces, and he could tell that their rings were also acting up.

The people at the table turned back to their papers, and the man reading the list from earlier resumed his task. “Carl Gallagher?” he asked, looking up to see the vote.

“Wait, stop!” Ian shouted.

The people of the Head Office turned to look at him like he was a gnat they just couldn’t swat.

“I don’t want to be the cause of all this death around me,” Ian said, holding his hands out, showing the blood as evidence.

“I don’t want anyone else to get hurt, especially not you,” he continued, speaking directly to Mickey. “You’ll get hurt without your ring, and you can _die_ , Mick... and I don’t even _want_ to live in a world without you.”

Ian frowned at him but Mickey wanted to tell him he was being ridiculous. He was worth it to Mickey, and he was an idiot for suggesting otherwise. “If you’re gone, I wouldn’t care if they touched me,” he said, pointing to the two other reapers whose rings were glowing red, not getting that it was the exact same feeling for Mickey.

Ian stepped up to him and put his arms around his waist, kissing him tenderly, clearly not giving a shit who was watching. Mickey easily surrendered to Ian, letting him pull him in close.

“Don’t forget I love you,” he said into Mickey’s ear.

It happened in a blur; Mickey didn’t even realize anything was wrong until Ian’s body seemed to droop against his, slowly starting slide to the ground. One second Ian’s lips were on his, and the next, the ring that had been in Mickey’s pocket slipped out of Ian’s hand and hit the floor with a loud thwack, bouncing twice, as if it were happening in slow motion, before ultimately rolling to a stop beside Mickey’s feet.

“Ian!” Mickey shouted, reaching to catch him and support him before he could crash into the floor. Ian felt like dead weight in his arms and Mickey carefully lowered him down to the ground as gently as he could. Mickey got on his knees beside Ian, panicking when he didn’t get any reaction from him. He shook Ian’s body, hoping to snap him out of whatever shock he was in, all while breathing an endless stream of “no”s.

Ian didn’t move.

“You idiot!” Mickey screamed, slamming his clenched fist down onto Ian’s chest. Still nothing. “You fucking idiot!”

Eric grabbed his arm in the air before Mickey could hit Ian again. He put an understanding hand on Mickey’s shoulder.

Mickey shook his head. “He- he _can’t_. He _can’t_ be... ” Mickey stuttered, wiping his eyes with the back of his wrist.

It didn’t feel real. They couldn’t have gone through all of the bullshit of the past couple of days just for it to end like this. Mickey couldn’t believe it. _Wouldn’t_ believe it.

“He can’t be dead,” he said again, still shaking his head. He fought to ignore the tears that threatened to fall, ignore the tightening in his chest, and most importantly, ignore the empty, hollow, unseeing look in Ian’s green eyes.

He put a hand to Ian’s face and closed them, then focused on the feel of Ian’s still-warm skin under his fingertips, searching for any sign of what had happened to him. He brushed away a stray strand of hair, putting it back where it belonged, tucked away behind Ian’s ear. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been holding Ian when he realized he hadn’t seen his aura rise.

He pulled back and studied him. “Ian?” he whispered.

There was no response.

Mickey leaned forward again and put his ear to Ian’s mouth to check if he had a faint breath, but was sure he didn’t feel anything. He put a finger under Ian’s throat and felt for a pulse but found none. He looked around and noticed that all of the people in the room were staring at them. He turned to Mr. Smith. “What the fuck is going on?”

Mr. Smith pursed his lips and looked to Mrs. Davis, who was shaking her head.

“He’s not supposed to be a reaper. _I checked_ ,” she said to Mr. Smith.

They all turned to look at the men and women of the Head Office for an answer. Only the white-haired man bothered to make eye contact with Mickey. “That is correct. He will not be a reaper…” He paused, and Mickey felt like there was a “but” coming. “However,” the man continued, and Mickey’s pulse was racing, “that doesn’t mean his soul is mine to take.”

Mickey stared at him and blinked a few times, not understanding what he was seeing. It was as if the white-haired man was standing behind a veil himself: one minute he was wearing a black suit like the rest of them, and the next his clothes had changed into a set of black robes, with full-on hood and scythe. It lasted for only a second, and then he was back in his regular suit.

Mickey felt like his jaw was hanging open, like he’d forgotten to breathe. No one else seemed to be reacting, so Mickey guessed that the man had only dropped his veil for him. He opened his mouth to ask more questions but there was a disconnect between his mind and his mouth. He had no idea what the fuck was going on, but had a growing suspicion that the old man was _the_ Grim Reaper. It would have explained why the others had looked at him funny when Mickey had said the name “Thanatos”.

There was another ding from behind Mickey and he turned his head around again with his eyebrows raised, wondering who the fuck else could be joining their little party. He half expected his dad to walk out through the elevator doors, because it was the only way the day could get any worse ‒ Murphy’s Law or whatever.

The woman who walked out was dressed in all white. Her long blonde hair fell in small ringlets around her shoulders and her soft, gentle smile reached her eyes, a stark contrast to the atmosphere around them.

She walked directly towards Mickey and stopped a couple of feet ahead of him. She knelt and put a hand on his shoulder. “You can let go of him now,” she said, voice melodious and comforting to him. “I’ll take care of him.”

Mickey hesitated. He still had no idea what was happening, had no idea who the woman was, but felt like he could completely trust her nonetheless.

Not bothered by Mickey’s lack of action, she reached into her pocket and pulled out a ring that looked almost identical to the reapers’ rings, save for one difference: the stone was a bright, blue topaz. Mickey continued holding onto Ian as he watched her slide the ring onto his finger.

Not even a minute later, Ian’s eyes slowly cracked open. He took a regular, even breath and Mickey’s eyes widened. He hadn’t believed that Ian had died, and now that he was faced with the proof that he’d been correct, that something had been different about Ian, he still couldn’t believe it.

“Ian?” he asked quietly, tentatively, not sure if he was imagining it all.

“Mhmm…”

Mickey let out a strangled gasp and leaned forward, completely enveloping Ian’s body with his own. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he breathed.

Ian weakly squeezed Mickey back and he all but melted into the touch.

“Do you have to make such a spectacle of it, Nikki?” the white-haired man asked, radiating disapproval.

She grinned at him. “Only you would think that, Uncle Nathan.”

Mickey only half paid attention to the exchange, his main focus on Ian, who seemed to be fully awake and had begun moving. Mickey watched in stunned silence as Ian attempted to sit up.

Ian held a hand to his head when he sat upright and winced. “My head feels like it got run over by a truck,” he groaned.

“That would be the aneurism,” the woman, Nikki, explained to him. “It’s healed, but it will still hurt for a few days.”

Mickey shook his head, having heard enough. “Someone better tell me what the _fuck_ is going on, _right now_ ,” he growled, carefully supporting Ian’s weight as he struggled to stay sitting upright.

Nikki turned her smile to Mickey and he felt part of his anger slip away. She had a calming effect on everyone else there too, not only him. He saw the surprised and questioning expressions on the other reapers’ faces melt away to general curiosity. “The Company that you work for has a couple of different branches…”

“So you’re saying Ian’s in a different fucking department?” Mickey pressed. It would have explained why he was able to see Mickey’s true self, past the veil, to the tattoos, the color of Mickey’s hair and eyes, to notice him in the club that first night when no one else did, even though Mr. Smith had assured him that it wasn’t a possibility.

She moved her shoulders up in a small, quick movement that almost resembled a shrug. “I like this one,” Nikki said to the man she had called her uncle. She gave him that same easy smile she’d given to Mickey. “I hope you keep him.”

Uncle Nathan ‒ or perhaps Thanatos, as Mickey suspected ‒ sighed heavily. “I suppose I don’t really have a choice,” he said. With another snap of his fingers, a ring appeared on the ground in front of Mickey. It was covered in mud and soggy leaves, as if it had spent a day in the bottom of a creek. Ian leaned forward and picked the ring up, brushing off the dirt with his long fingers before passing it to Mickey, who quickly slid it on.

“What am I then?” Ian asked, looking to Nikki.

“Reapers take life, but someone has to _give_ it, right?” she told him, winking.

Ian didn’t look comforted by her answer. “What, like an angel?” he asked.

“Something like that… Come on,” she said, holding a hand out, ready to help him to his feet. “I’ll take you to the training room for orientation.”

Ian tightened his grip on Mickey’s arm. Nikki clearly noticed the gesture, because she tilted her head to the side and gave him an understanding smile. “It’s alright. I promise you can see Mr. Miller again in a couple of hours.”

Ian rose and Mickey got up with him, watching as Ian and Nikki walked to the elevator, feeling equally nervous and relieved at seeing Ian leave the strange, white space.

Once the doors closed and the elevator creepily vanished, Mickey turned towards Thanatos again. “So…” he prompted.

“Mr. Miller, you have tried my patience for the day. Just go,” he said, waving his hand in dismissal. “The rest of you too,” he said, indicating the other three reapers left in their group. Mrs. Davis ran to grab her ring from the floor near Mickey and then made a beeline towards the spot the elevator had been in.

* * *

The ride down was probably the most awkward elevator ride Mickey had ever been on. The elevator music wasn’t helping matters. Mickey had never even noticed music in the elevator before, but he supposed he had learned to tune out any and all forms of jazz.

“So, um,” Eric said. “If it’s alright with you, I’d like to never think or talk about this day ever again.”

The others wordlessly nodded their agreement. Even Mr. Smith seemed relieved to be out of the endless stretch of the white room and away from the scrutiny of the Head Office.

Mrs. Davis glared at Mickey and crossed her arms over her chest. She turned away from the rest of them and stared at the wall of the elevator. “I can assure you that if any of you ever _do_ , even your rings won’t save you.”  
Mickey could tell that her threat had no real weight to it. He had a feeling that she was only saying it to regain a modicum of authority over them, and he got the impression that she wasn’t as angry and unwilling to have Mickey find out the truth about the Company as she had seemed earlier. It somehow made him feel less alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know no one actually cares, but Nikki is meant to be a modernized version of Nyx, daughter of the greek god Phanes, the generator of life… a nice little offset to Thanatos, the daemon of death.


	12. Epilogue

It was a busy day for Mickey; he had ten reapings before lunch time. They were all pretty standard: mostly heart failures, a couple in a car accident, an old man with pneumonia and a mugging gone wrong. He stopped at the diner for his usual lunch at the diner. Even though he told himself he was only listening to Fiona’s updates about her family because it was the socially acceptable thing to do, he knew deep down that he actually got along pretty well with Ian’s older sister. If circumstances had been different, he probably would have fit right in with the Gallaghers.

He was just finishing up his apple pie when he got a call from Eric.

“Hey bro,” Eric said, making Mickey cringe for the umpteenth time. “Do you have time to meet up?”

Mickey checked the time on his phone and saw that he had about an hour left before he had to be at an old aged home downtown. “Sure, what’s up?”

“I’m at a bar on the South Side. The Alibi Room. Can you meet me here?”

Mickey was familiar with the place. He and his brothers had played pool there back in the day, but he hadn’t been around the neighborhood in almost a year, not wanting to risk being in too close a proximity to his family.

If he got a cab down to Canaryville, it wouldn’t take that long. “I can be there in fifteen minutes,” he offered. “But I can’t stay long. My next mark’s at two.”

“Sounds good, bro.”

* * *

He walked into the bar and was comforted by the fact that the Alibi was just as cheap and dirty as he remembered it being. The few regulars were already sloppy messes, despite it only being early afternoon. He spotted Eric at a small table in the back and went over to sit across from him.

Eric waved at the bartender and a woman with long braids in an extremely low-cut top brought two more beers over to them. She was friendly enough and spoke to Eric like he was a regular. Mickey thought she looked familiar but couldn’t place her until she walked away. He recognized her as the Gallaghers’ neighbor ‒ the one he’d seen help Ian’s brother when he’d twisted his ankle.

Mickey drank his beer and waited for Eric to tell him what was up. His friend looked nervous, constantly checking the time and biting his lip whenever he thought Mickey wasn’t looking.

“Jesus Christ, Hicks,” Mickey said after ten minutes of just sitting there, losing his patience. “I don’t have all fuckin’ day! Just spit it out.”

Eric gave him a nervous laugh, then wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. He checked his watch again. “I have to tell you something.”

“Yeah, I kinda got that,” he said sarcastically.

“It’s about your sister…” Eric said.

Mickey’s heart stopped. Actually fucking stopped.

He’d accepted that everyone had to die eventually. He’d even come to terms with knowing that “everyone” included his relatives and people close to him. But he had _really_ fucking hoped that the Head Office would have learned something after the fiasco with Ian and wouldn’t have let him be so _close_ to their deaths.

“Why the fuck did you call me here?” Mickey demanded, looking around for his sister. He didn’t understand why Eric would want him to witness Mandy’s death. Did he think Mickey would want to stop it? That he’d want a repeat of what had happened with Ian?

“To talk,” Eric answered, still looking guilty.

“What time’s it supposed to happen?” Mickey asked through clenched teeth.

Eric swallowed, frowning. “I haven’t decided yet. I wanted to talk to you first…”

“ _Decided_?” he growled. “What the fuck is there to decide?” In that moment, he hated Eric, not just for being a fucking idiot, but also for putting him in that situation. He didn’t want to be the one to decide whether or not Mandy would die on schedule.

“You know what your dad is like,” Eric said with a shrug, too casually, like he wasn’t taking it seriously.

“My dad? What the hell’s he got to do with anything?”

“Well I can’t exactly ask _him_ if he’s okay with it.”

“The hell, man? You think asking _me_ is a better idea?”

“But she’s your sister…” Eric argued.

“Exactly!” Mickey screamed, and the few people in the bar sober enough to be aware of their surroundings turned to momentarily look in their direction before quickly losing interest in the reapers again. “I can’t believe you thought I’d want to see her die,” he said, voice lower. “That’s just fucked up.”

“...Die?” Eric looked at him like he was fucking crazy. “Wait, what? Who said anything about dying? I wanted to ask you for your permission to marry her…”

Mickey glared at him, brows knit, mouth scowling. “You _what_?”

“Mandy. I, uh… We’ve sort of been seeing each other…”

Mickey closed his mouth and swallowed, taking in what Eric was telling him. “You’re fucking my sister?”

Eric’s face reddened right before his eyes and Mickey noticed a bead of sweat roll down the side of his temple.

“Since when?” he pressed.

Eric pulled on his tie, loosening it a fraction. “Since I met her. You know I work in this neighborhood,” he explained. “She saw me and asked if I’d heard anything about Ian. I told her I hadn’t seen him, and she took my number so that she could follow up with me again, in case Ian reached out…”

“So you thought it would be okay to bang her,” Mickey accused, tightened his grip around his drink.

“No! It’s not like that,” Eric insisted. “I love her! I told you, I want to marry her, bro.”

“I swear to God, Hicks, if you call me ‘bro’ one more fucking time…” Mickey threatened.

“Sorry,” he muttered, then asked, “What about after I marry her?”

Mickey swiped a hand out towards him but Eric ducked his head just in time to avoid being smacked. “You’re a dick,” Mickey said, raising his eyebrows in warning.

“So… Is that a yes?”

“Fuck you is what it is,” he said, shaking his head. He took a sip of his beer to buy himself some more time and let his now-racing heart relax. “You scared the shit outta me, asshole,” Mickey complained.

“Sorry…” Eric told him again. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, black, velvet box, then opened it to show Mickey the ring.

Mickey opened his eyes wide at the size of the thing. “You sure you wanna give _this_ to my sister? She might just take it and leave you in the dust,” he teased.

Eric blushed even more deeply. “If I could give her something even bigger, I would,” he admitted.

Mickey’s lips pulled up and to the side in a smirk as he huffed out a small laugh. Eric was a good guy, a genuine friend who’d put his life on the line to save Ian without even knowing him, and if he was so in love with Mandy that he wanted to marry her, who was Mickey to object? His sister could definitely do worse.

“So how are you planning on asking her?” he wondered, grinning when he saw relief wash over Eric’s face.

* * *

Mickey was almost late to his next reaping, but managed to get out of the cab and run into the nursing home where his ring led him just in time. He’d spent longer than he’d originally intended talking to Eric, since he hadn’t heard anything about his sister since Ian’s death. He was happy to learn that she’d finished her second semester of college with decent grades, but was annoyed when Eric alluded to them already having lived together for over two months. He wondered how he could Eric could have kept something so huge from him, and how he himself had missed it.

Mickey walked through the Emergency Room entrance at around five thirty and made his way through the Trauma Center to the elevator, because it was faster to go straight through it rather than walk around to the main entrance. After a year of going to the hospital on a near-daily basis, he had gotten a few shortcuts down, made all the more easy by the fact that he didn’t have to explain where he was going to anyone. He supposed things would have been different if he hadn’t been a reaper anymore, but was glad he didn’t have to think about that.

He balanced the cups he was holding on top of each other so that he could push the call button for the elevator, then got in and hit the square for the fourth floor.

He stepped out into the Children’s Ward and walked down the couple of hallways that led him to the NICU. He spotted Ian almost immediately: as if the bright hair wasn’t enough of a beacon, Mickey now had to deal with seeing his boyfriend in a white suit every single day, although he had to admit that seeing Ian in _any_ suit, no matter the color, was fucking hot.

Ian was standing watch over a group of premature triplets. He’d told Mickey about them the night before, about how they’d started doing much better once the doctors had put them all into one incubator. He’d told Mickey all about touching each of the little ones with his ring moments after they were born and watching the light flood down and shroud them until their souls were finally absorbed into their teeny tiny bodies.

It was moments like that ‒ seeing how excited Ian got when talking about babies, or how invested he was in their general well-being ‒ that made Mickey recognize how perfect Ian’s job was for him. Mickey had been pretty bitter about it for the first couple of months. Every time Ian mentioned something about work or said Nikki’s name, Mickey would bristle. It was hard for him to accept that it was a _good_ thing, because of how difficult the path to get there had been... but he had to admit that it was kind of perfect, especially since, back when they’d first met, Ian himself had admitted that he hadn’t had any idea what he wanted to do with his life.

When Ian noticed Mickey approaching, his eyebrows knit together, leaving angry wrinkles on his forehead. He glared at Mickey as he walked towards him, arms crossed over his chest.

“Chill, man,” Mickey told him, scoffing at the deadly scowl Ian was still giving him. “I figured you’ still be here so I brought you some coffee.”

Ian begrudgingly took the offered drink and Mickey turned to look in the direction Ian had been staring before he’d noticed him. “Those the triplets?” he asked, nodding towards the three tiny infants through the window.

“Yeah,” Ian told him, face returning to its natural smile that Mickey loved so much. “Annie, Grace and Paul,” he said. “Paul’s the little one on the right… He passed the three pound mark today, so they think he’s got a really strong chance of pulling through.”

Mickey instinctively reached a hand out and put it on Ian’s arm, giving it a tight squeeze. Ian covered it with his own, gratefully accepting the small show of affection. He subconsciously rubbed Mickey’s hand with his fingers while they watched the babies sleep.

Ian took a sip of the coffee and murmured his appreciation to Mickey. Ian’s ring afforded him most of the same luxuries as Mickey’s did: he was unnoticeable and easily forgotten, so the doctors and nurses in the NICU moved past them without giving them any thought.

“Did you have a good day?” Ian asked after a few more minutes of watching the babies in silence.

Mickey nodded. “Same shit, different day.”

“Did you have lunch at the diner?” he wondered, and Mickey grinned at how badly Ian failed at trying to keep his voice casual.

Whenever Mickey had reapings at the hospital, he and Ian would have lunch together in the cafeteria ‒ unless, of course, Mickey had to visit the NICU, in which case Ian wouldn’t speak to him for a week, as if reaping newborns was something Mickey had any control over.

“Yeah, I did,” he told Ian, watching him fight the urge to press for more information. Mickey knew how much Ian wanted to see his siblings again ‒ as badly as Mickey had wanted to know how Mandy was doing when he’d first become a reaper ‒ but Ian had rules of his own he had to follow, so he savored the small updates Mickey got for him from Fiona.

“Did you-”

“Yeah,” Mickey said, knowing exactly what Ian was going say. “I asked how they’re doing.” Technically Fiona had freely supplied the information, but Mickey still took credit for it. “Debbie aced her calculus test and Lip got the internship with that tech start-up.”

“How’s Liam doing? Carl?”

“She went to visit Carl in Juvie two days ago. He’s still happy as fuck, the idiot,” Mickey muttered. “And the little one’s doing good. Still wetting the bed, but much less often now that he moved to your old bed.”

Ian leaned down and placed a warm kiss upon his lips. Mickey closed his eyes and relaxed into it, even if it was only for a moment. He licked his lips when Ian pulled away, savoring the taste of Ian mixed with a tinge of the sweet coffee.

“Thanks,” Ian breathed.

“No problem,” Mickey assured him.

A nurse brought the triplets’ mother into the room with a wheelchair and helped the mom feed the babies one at a time.

“Did you know that Eric and Mandy were dating?” Mickey asked, watching Ian in his periphery to gauge his response.

Ian bit his lip. “Um… kinda? I mean, he never told me his girlfriend’s name, but I always just assumed it was Mandy from how they’d hit it off that first time.”

Mickey grunted in annoyance. “And you didn’t feel like that was something you should’ve told me?” He turned to the side with a raised eyebrow and looked at Ian, waiting for his reply.

“I guess that means he showed you the ring. What’d you think?”

Mickey crossed his arms over his chest without answering, hoping his silence would clue Ian in to how pissed he was at being kept in the dark.

“He loves her,” Ian offered.

“I know...” Mickey sighed.

“And he’s a great guy, even if he does work for the Company,” Ian added, grinning.

“I _know_ ,” he grumbled, feeling like a little brat.

The mother finished feeding her kids and was wheeled out again by the nurse. Mickey checked the time on his watch. Without noticing, he’d spent over an hour standing with Ian in the NICU. “Are you coming home anytime soon?”

Ian shook his head slightly. “I wanna stay a little longer,” he explained, not taking his eyes off the triplets.

“Are you sure?” he asked, keeping the disappointment from his voice.

Ian sidestepped and moved to stand behind him. He wrapped his arms around Mickey’s waist and leaned forward a fraction, resting his chin on Mickey’s shoulder. His face felt stubbly, the coarse little hairs scratching against his own cheek.

“Sorry,” he sighed. “How ‘bout I make it up to you tonight?” he said, sliding one hand down from his waist and squeezing Mickey’s butt.

“Or how ‘bout we find the closest supply room and save some time?”

Ian chuckled, his whole body shaking against Mickey’s back.

“What?” Mickey asked, feigning innocence. “It wouldn’t be the first time…” he said, raising his eyebrows suggestively even though Ian couldn’t see it from the angle he was in.

“Ha ha,” Ian told him sarcastically, shaking his head. “But really, I can stop and get us some Five Guys again on my way home. How’s that sound?”

He tilted his head to the side, pretending to consider Ian’s offer. “Or we can do both,” Mickey said. He liked his suggestion much more than Ian’s, since his didn’t involve having to wait.

“So fuckin’ impatient,” Ian tutted.

Mickey started to turn around and Ian loosened his grip around his waist to allow him to rotate more easily. Once Mickey was facing him, he tightened his grip once again. “I can’t help it,” Mickey confessed, tilting his head back and smiling up at Ian. It was the truth: Ian was his drug, and he couldn’t get enough of him.

“Tonight,” Ian told him, giving Mickey another soft kiss. “I’ll only be another couple of hours,” he promised, finally letting go of Mickey.

“Fine,” he conceded. “See you at home, Mr. Riley,” he added with a wicked grin.

Ian cringed at the use of his new name, not used to being anything but a Gallagher even after all this time, but he nodded at Mickey nevertheless, flashing him a small smile. “See you soon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE END!! (only it isn't an end at all, so yay!)
> 
> Comments and Kudos are greatly appreciated! <3   
> Thanks for taking the time to read this.


End file.
